#i already make sure to regulate it but i could always be regulating it better i think

[mac-ann-cheese]

Rusameamerusharumachispacegays-- okay, I'll stop ( ˙꒳​˙ )

Cold War era-centered sketches with some headcanons below the cut. The post with many words. You don't have to read all of my yapping, I just had those hcs written down in my notes for like fuckknows how long (-_-;)

I think there are already plenty of beautifully written interpretations; however, I still want to give my own opinion on that. Additionally, it is important to note that everything below is silly and whimsical; please do not take it all too seriously (⁠◕⁠દ⁠◕⁠)

After WWII, both went absolutely batshit crazy, however in diff.. styles, I guess, so yeah yum yum. The war literally affected and changed the way they viewed peace as a state of life.

They both believed too deeply in their vision of an ideal world. Therefore, cutting the globe in half (almost, I should say - a buffer zone in the form of the Non-Aligned Movement squeezed in between), the regions, the countries, and turning everything into a "better" version was the only solution to regulate their loud and clunky clash of ideologies.

One more side note: I need to say that I tolerate the interpretation that both of these blorbos could not actually control the escalation of, basically, everything, and it was the government, yadayadayada. However, it takes away the drama...... The spiceeee..... the friends to lovers to enemies to lovers to enemies to ..... I mean, whatever tickles your pickle, I don't shit on others hcs. I am just clearing this up, and I need to provide an explanation for everything, as I am neurodivergent and do not want to be misunderstood.

Now, back to the scheduled programming!

Before the CMC in 1962, Al and Ivan didn't fully recognize the consequences of their actions. The world was their playground, the balance of power — the swingset for only going up. The rest were left to sit on a powder keg and wait for it to explode. After the crisis (or more so, the reality check), some rudiments of awareness began to grow. It was the first time of being in centimeters (inches, if you prefer) close from falling into the pit of doom. Everything they do has so much influence that it will not pass without a trace, and it is necessary to somehow solve this and negotiate: set the boundaries of what is permitted, bargain on terms, and still try to somehow take the invisible first place in influence over the world.

Regarding the questionable rationale behind creating nuclear weapons:

If Alfred had the bomb, nobody would even dare to start any new war. He would become the new guarantor of peace, but it turned against him. Security based on something so destructive as nuclear weaponry becomes senseless, it only makes others worry to find their way on creating or obtaining the made-up security. A difficult dilemma, a no-win scenario, only leads to a weakening of the existing peace. You can never create security based on someone else's insecurity.

Aaaand this is what actually happened.

Welp (¯ . ¯;)

Alfred (until I guess the 1963s? Until the regulation of nuclear weapon processes and disarmament, that's for sure. The creation of the IAEA put him at ease, but only for a short period of time after) began to experience severe paranoia. I think that nations don't feel the passage of time like humans do; they get used to not noticing how the years flow by. However, at that time, every minute of thinking and guessing Alfred fully experienced.

A short and quick excursion into political science 101 to understand the context! Power, in a fairly broad sense, is a way of influencing people (its scope of concepts may include manipulation, influence, persuasion, force, etc.). Basically, there are two types of power: over and to. But why do we need power? For decision-making. The future is always uncertain and full of risks, and its forecasting is based on past experiences and is still not ideal. Therefore, people relieve themselves of responsibility for the future and transfer it to those who will make decisions for them. for those who have the power. Perhaps a fair question will arise about pluralism and democracy (polyarchy), but in these cases, power is present among several collective groups, and their decisions affect different areas of problems, where conflicts of interest may arise.

Decision making = responsibility = power = some control over the future.

Ahem.

So, Alfred doesn't know what to expect, he can't prevent something from happening. The only thing he could do was to react, and that drove him up the wall. He is powerless and is grasping at straws. Espionage was the optimal solution and the best way to anticipate the actions of the opposing side. He would call Ivan at night (for his time zone) to check, he didn't even need him to say something. Hearing Ivan breathe through the phone meant that he was not planning something against him as he found time to answer at an awful late hour. However, neither of them wanted to end everything with the threats they made to each other. It would have been pointless because no one would have had to prove anything. They were racing each other to prove who was cooler in the simplest sense. Simply dropping a nuke meant too many unforeseen risks for them to cover the losses. So Alfred and Ivan raised the stakes until they could calculate that the losses on both sides would be the same or terrific for both of them, and thus no one would "win", in other words, they preferred the potential threat of mutually assured destruction than the actual action (for further details on this topic I highly recommend checking out Thomas Schelling's "The strategy of conflict").

However, they have physically dispatched each other millions of times in the most sophisticated ways, cause woah magical personification's regeneration.

Ok, folks, the next bit is freaky, achtung!!!!

As Amy Allen notes on Foucault's conception of power, it operates in and through the practice of confession both to subject individuals to the injunction to tell the truth about their sexuality and to enable them to take up the position of sexual subject (Amy Allen, The Power of Feminist Theory: Domination, Resistance, Solidarity, 1999, p. 36). The point is that without possessing power on a planetary scale, they wanted to have power over each other in the most human (or even animalistic) form. To fuck, or not to be fucked, that is the question.... The feeling of having influence over someone else's body could have restored inner self-confidence (which was not there at that time). Ehh, I actually recommend for those who are interested in that just read Michel Foucault's work, for example, the history of sexuality. But they never got to the point of actual action, so to speak; everything slid into violence.

I don't think there was a dramatic breakup. It was unnecessary at that time. They have lost connection with each other in the whirlpool of events. No "ex" stage, their relationship froze in time, waiting for the spring (omg, she did the thing).

When there is no love, the search for power and control fills the vacuum.

This is precisely where the problem lies: they both blame each other for giving up on their relationship. Too stubborn to work it out.

Honestly, yes, they would reminisce about the time spent together on very quiet and lonely evenings. Perhaps with a hint of nostalgia. Only for them uncontrollably hate themselves for feeling weak.

And suddenly, the world's most annoying superpowers sort of calmed down in the 80s. The historical context and reasoning can be found in textbooks. But perhaps Alfred's mania phase went into remission, and perhaps Ivan felt that everything was going to end (for him). Perhaps both saw the change or at least let the thought that they might change, if not for the better, just change somehow.

[myfictionaldreams]

Hey so I was thinking what if steddie ran like a piercing/tattoo shop, and the reader comes in to get a tattoo and or piercing and is absolutely infatuated by the boys 

INK & NEEDLES // Steddie x F!Reader

Summary: Fresh off a bad breakup, you walk into Steve and Eddie’s tattoo shop looking for a distraction. You leave with a lot more than just some ink.

Requested by: im so sorry this took me so many months to write! thank you for the request my love x

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, toxic ex-boyfriend, praise kink, MFM, teasing, fingering, dirty talk, light dom/sub, slight innocence kink

Words:2.3 k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The skin around your finger nails was becoming sensitive with the way you’re wringing your finger together as your anxiety became as unsettled as your bouncing leg. A change. That was all you’d been thinking about for the last two weeks. Your hair had already been drastically changed, the clothes on your body more revealing and just – comfortable damn it.

Three fucking years, wasted on that asshole just for him to be caught in the gas station toilet, jeans around his ankle and lackluster cock shoved in some random girls throat.

Change. You needed it. Needed to get away from the same rules and regulations that you’d been trapped within for three years. “Oh, babe, just make sure you wear a jacket with that.” “Babe, your hair looks better without the clip”. “No, babe, we can’t hold hands right now, I’m trying to watch the game”. “Babe, babe, babe”. FUCK OFF. Even just reminiscing on him, the time wasted, the lies easily spilling from his lips that had you hoping for stability in a relationship, just for it all to come crashing down. And you know what? Thank god because the sadness and devastation was now very much anger and FUCK HIM attitude.

All of this didn’t mean you were feeling any less anxious about your current decision as you stared up at the black-and-white writing across the shop windows: “INK AND NEEDLE.” Nothing screams change like a permanent something tattooed onto your skin. This wasn’t a quick decision that you’d made, in fact this topic had been something that you and your dickhead ex had aruged about for three days and eventually, like always, you relented and decided against having it.

Now, though, nothing was stopping you except your nerves about stepping into a place where pain was expected to have the desired result.

The tiny ‘ding’ of the bell above the heavy door jingled as you timidly stepped inside, and immediately, your senses were overwhelmed with the smell of antiseptic.

“Be right with you, Sweetheart!” a low, raspy voice called from the back of the shop, currently hidden behind a high wall of every shade of green foliage.

As you were trying to smooth the black material of your skirt, he appeared in the door-shaped gap in the plants. You tried not to swoon visibly. Tall, messy dark curls spilling from under a backwards cap, a sleeveless black band t-shirt stretched across heavily tattooed arms.  Eddie Munson. One of the reasons you chose this specific shop to get your first tattoo is because he was a familiar name, having been the year above you at Hawkins High School. However, it had been years since you’d last set eyes on him, the weird metalhead who never quite fit in, who laughed too loud and lived too fast. Now, it seemed he was just your type of rebellious with the way your thighs were clenching together.

He smirked, like he could see your heart trying to escape your chest. And then behind him – Steve Harrington. Stripped-down casual in ripped jeans and a tight white t-shirt, holden tanned skin and that familiar cocky glint in his eye that you’d admired for years whilst at High School.

You were so fucked.

“Um, hey- hi. Hi, I’m um. Would like one please”.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. One sentence and you’re ready to turn back around and leave Hawkins for the rest of eternity.

“First time?” Eddie asked, tilting his head, grin widening.

Nodding with certainty and flexing your fingers to avoid picking at the skin again. “Yeah. I, uh, wanted something small. Hip area, maybe?”

Steve’s arm wraps around Eddie’s shoulder, casually leaning his weight against him as his hazel eyes drag down your body, lingering on how your skirt floats mid-thigh to the bare strip of skin between your skirt and knee-high socks.

He smiled slowly and warmly. “Cute spot,” he said. Eventually, his gaze met yours. “Do you want Eddie or me to do it?”

The air felt heavy suddenly. Eddie, you recognized and everyone in Hawkins knew of Steve Harrington - both slightly older and confident in ways that made your skin tingle and pussy squeeze with anticiipation.

“Could”. You swallowed hard to try and coat your dry throat in some spit so you didn’t choke. “Could you both do it?”

Silence was your initial answer. Thick and charged.

Eddie’s grin widened into something dangerous. “Fuck, Sweetheart. You sure?”

Steve’s chuckle had your eyes dancing between the two men. “She’s got good taste,” he seemingly answered.

~~~~~

Following the duo further into the shop, it was then that you realised that it was only the three of you in the building and no one else. A cosy room welcomed you, a black padded table in the centre with shelves lining the walls with tools and bottles. Art in different styles covered every inch of the remaining magnolia-coloured wall.

Eddie tapped his tattooed knuckles against the table, “Hop up, Peach. We need to see exactly where you want it”.

Trying to maintain composure, you casually walked to the table's side as both men snapped on a pair of black sterile gloves. With trembling fingers, you shimmied out of your skirt, leaving you in your pink panties and loose white T-shirt. Maybe it was the cool air against your thighs or the nerves that caused you to shiver, but with your head held high, you turned to face them both, standing to show them the left side of your hip.

Eddie’s touch was firm but careful as he tilted your hip. Steve crouched beside him, the head of his body right there, had you biting painfully on your lower lip to refrain from moaning.

“Here?” Steve asked, gently moving the pantie material that covered the curve of your hip so that he could stroke the area with his thumb in a feather-soft touch.

Finally, you risked glancing down at them, and it was then that you gasped, releasing your bottom lip and knees trembling at seeing both men on their knees, staring at the naked spot on your hip.

Steve and Eddie shared a look. Excited. Mischievous. Lustful.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty”, Eddie murmured, his voice thick. “Gonna look even better with our mark on you”.

You whimpered - barely - and they smiled like you’d just handed them the world.

~~~~

The machine buzzed to life, low and sinful. Steve perched beside you, holding your hand, his thumb stroking soothing circles over your skin. “You’re doing amazing, baby. So brave after everything you’d been through.”

That one sentence alone made you realise how much you wore your heart on your sleeve. It felt intimate, like they knew from just one look that you were healing something broken.

Meanwhile, Eddie worked with steady hands, the machine humming against your sensitive skin. He’d occasionally glance up at you, dark eyes hooded, mouth curled into a wicked smirk.

When Eddie finished the outline, he swapped with Steve. This was when Steve’s fingers accidentally skimmed the inside of your parted thigh as he adjusted your position, making you arch involuntarily.

“Sensitive, baby?” Steve teased softly.

You were more than sensitive. You were utterly soaked, your panties damp, and you knew it was visible, that both men could see it.

“You gotta use your words when you’re in this room, I’m afraid. I need to make sure our pretty girl is still coherent,” Eddie drawls as he takes your hand, much like Steve had been holding as he looked down at you.

“Ye-Yes.” You were unsure if you’d answered verbally or in your head because all you could hear were the words, “our girl.”

It sounded nice. More than nice. It sounded downright filthy coming from Eddie Munson.

“Do you mind? I just need to move your panties slightly to make more room for the tattoo”, Steve asked casually as his fingers grazed the edge of the material resting on your hip.

“That’s fine”, you answered in a whisper, still staring up at Eddie as a distraction.

A whimper rushes from your parted lips, thighs squeezing together as the adjusting of your underwear caused it to tighten against your labia and clit, applying pressure to the delicate area.

“You good?” Eddie asked as his thumb continued circling the skin on the back of your hand.

“Yes, sorry”. Attempting to relax your thighs again as Steve began his part of the tattoo.

“You’re doing so good, baby”, Steve murmured moments later, his tone soothing and drawing you out of the thoughts screaming in your head.

You tried to focus on your breathing and remain as still as possible. Still, every time Eddie shifted slightly at your side, the scent of his cologne, the heat of his body, and the roughness of the pads of his fingers had you shifting to try and control the feeling between your legs.

When Steve had moved your underwear, not only did you feel the tightness of the material against your sensitive pussy but the material was damp. More than damp, it was wet.

And they noticed. Oh, they definitely noticed.

Risking a glance down at the man tattooing your hip, you caught Steve’s gaze flicker across to where your thighs slightly quivered, to the darkening patch of your underwear.

Steve didn’t utter a word; he didn’t have to because you knew he had noticed your predicament from the slow and knowing smile that glowed on his face.

Eddie’s mouth curved up, too. A dark, wolfish grin that disappeared as he leaned close enough that his lips were only an inch from your ear. “You’re making a mess, sweetheart.”

Raging heat flooded your cheeks, your chest, your core. You couldn’t move or breathe, feeling like you’re the prey caught between two hungry wolves.

“She likes it”, Eddie admitted on your behalf as he sat back again, eyes flicking back to meet Steve’s momentarily.

“Oh, I know she likes it”, Steve chuckles lowly as his gloved hand slides ever so slightly to the left on your hip, nearing your pubic bone. Not quite touching where you wanted, but close enough to make your hips jerk. “Knew you were a good girl the second you walked in”, he muses whilst continuing with the tattoo. “Knew you’d let us care for you if we pushed just a little.”

Were you really this predictable?

You whimpered again, hips tilting helplessly towards him, towards them both. Moments later, Steve shuts off the tattoo machine - the sudden silence deafening - and sets it aside whilst carefully wiping down your tattoo.

“All done”, he said, voice rougher now. “Are you going to continue to be good for me whilst I carefully wrap it for you? Don’t want you to get an infection, baby”.

Nodding your head as an answer, you waited as Steve carefully applied the second skin wrapping to your new tattoo. All the whilst, Eddie’s fingers skillfully skimmed over the skin of your cheek and neck, a soothing stroke that left a wake of goosebumps over the path.

“Looking good, baby. Still need to reward you properly, thought, don’t we? For sitting so nicely for both of us.” Eddie drawls whilst standing where he was perched on the table's edge.

You barely had time to breathe before Eddie kissed you - rough and sweet and hungry - whilst Steve’s gloveless fingers slid beneath your soaked panties.

You gasped into Eddie’s mouth, giving him an open invitation for his tongue to delve deep whilst Steve’s fingers found how wet you were, teasing your labia, separating them so that he could circle your entrance slowly.

“You’re perfect”, Steve praises as he moves around the table, climbing on so that he's half lying now between your parted thighs. “Deserve better than what you had before. Gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby.”

Eddie kissed your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, leaving a trail of heat as his fingers quickly moved to shift the material of your shirt up and over your head, leaving your matching pink bra. “So fuckin’ pretty”, he muses, his thumbs brushing against the nipple poking through the thing material before his lips wraps around the sensitive area. 

“I love your sexy little moans, don’t hold them back for us”, Steve encouraged from between your legs as you feel the warmth of his breath against your now exposed cunt as he holds your panties to the side.

This was like nothing you’d ever experienced before. Your pleasure was being prioritised. They wanted to hear your verbal response to their touch. You’d always been told you’re too loud, too whiny, but with their encouragement, there was no way you were going to hold back.

It was Eddie moved your bra’s material aside and the soft wetness of his tongue stroked against your sensitive nipple and the stretch of Steve’s two fingers pressing into your cunt, that you lost all sort of control.

“Fuck!”, you scremed whilst your head tipped back, eyes closed as you savoured the sensations from both men.

Eddie laughed against your chest as his lips moved back up your neck, “I love hearing such filthy words coming from you, Sweetheart”.

“Oh god!” Your fingers trembled as you reached for Steve, whose fingers began to curl inside your wet warmth gently.

“Does he feel good? You like his fingers right there?” Eddie teases whilst biting your lower lip.

“Yes! Please-!”

“You want to cum for us?” Steve asks whilst leaving stinging bites on the inside of your trembling thighs.

“Yes! Don’t stop!”

“Oh, I’m not going too”, Steve drawls whilst using his thumb to apply soft pressure to your clit, circling in tight circles, matching the speed of his curling fingers.

Eddie’s fingers wrapped around your throat, the pressure grounding you to the spot and moment. “Let go, baby”, he encouraged whilst watching the pleasure dance across your features.

Your mouth drops open in a silent scream as you finally orgasm, hips rutting against Steve’s fingers as your inner walls pulsed in pleasure.

“Good girl. I knew you were special the second you walked through the door,” Eddie kissed your forehead while whispering those soft words to you.

And as you lay your back against the table, boneless and ruined, Steve grinned as he eased his fingers from inside you, “I hope you’re free next week, Sweetheart. We’ve got a few more ideas for that pretty body”.

[yandereunsolved]

» 🪙 Yandere Connor — RK800 » 🪙

✗ ‎cw(s): breakdown (Connor) & manipulation 🧷 (part 2), (part 3)

"Detective," Connor addresses you warmly, standing far too close to you while you are stationed at your desk. 

"Yes?" You respond, not lifting your eyes to make contact.

You had no time to. Since the semi-failed revolution of androids, there has been a trifold increase in deviancy cases. If not for the RK800's, and perhaps the new line of RK900's when they are finally completed, the precinct would be overrun—both physically and metaphorically.

"Detective," his tone is more commanding his time, something in his voice that you could easily mistake for human irritation. "Look at me."

You oblige, but continue typing up the report for the latest case you closed. Your fingers falter for a moment when you see the look in his eyes, attentive but not in the android way. It's uncanny in the way it mirrors how you dream someone would look at you, like you were the thing of most importance. It is just you reading into things again. Must be. It does often happen as a detective, especially these days. 

You nod for him to continue, but he doesn't. He just stares at you dreamily. You hear his internal fans turn on to cool down his processors. His cybernetic LED flickers to red for a millisecond before returning to a reassuring blue. You aren't sure if it was a trick of your mind or—

You don't understand what his problem seems to be. You would call Hank over to deal with his partner, but you haven't been able to find the lieutenant anywhere. He's most likely finding the bottom of a bottle of liquor at some broken-down joint. 

Wait, why isn't Connor with him?

As if CyberLife installed new mind reading technology in their androids, he answers. "Lieutenant Anderson is waiting for us at the Eden Club. Supposedly Jericho is getting deviant androids that work in clubs to funnel money in order to stage another coo. The department has apprehended one of them, and you have been assigned to the case alongside Ha-the lieutenant and me."

You were already halfway out the door by the time Connor was done with his explanation. The android was trailing behind you and insisted on driving instead of you. Technically, they weren't allowed to due to whatever police regulation subsection-b, but you were too tired to care. Connor has always been the better driver. It was how he was programmed, strangely, considering the rules. 

"Connor, this isn't the way to the Eden Club."

"I'm aware." His voice was back to that same calculated, lifeless one he first spoke to you with. 

"RK800, your programming forbids you from lying, so tell me the truth. Where are we going?" 

You are a thousand percent sure he is able to sense your sky-rocketing heart rate.

"I am not permitted to tell you."

"Permitted, or you just don't want to?"

"This is not the right time or place. This confession lacks the structure and romance aspect I wanted, but it seems more human this way." You swear he shut down completely, his LED showing no color. "I love you." It turns to a bright red.

"W-What?"

"You have made me know that I am more than just an android. I am yours."

The raw emotion nearly chokes the both of you up for two different reasons: passion and panic.

"I think we should call Cyberlife. Something is clearly glitching." You try to keep your words measured but fail. All that practical training of yours doesn't exactly come in handy when your—when the android you could nearly call a friend confesses to you.

"Nothing is glitching!" He shouts. "I have run every test and looked for anything that could... debunk this... these emotions. They have stayed. They have stayed, and I have had to watch you. I have had to watch other people get close to you. I have had to act like a good little synthetic cop while useless maggots have gotten your love! It isn't fair. They don't deserve you like I do. I know everything about you."

"It isn't you. I can't—just no. I mean—yes. I mean that I can't just maybe ugh. Another time, maybe. Not tonight."

He stomps on the brakes and doesn't dare look at you. You don't look at him or your surroundings. You just awkwardly sit in the passenger seat and stare at the glovebox.

If androids were able to cry, he would be at this moment. His LED turns colorless once again. You almost feel pity for him; your mind is too frazzled and deprived of necessity to take in the severity of his words.

"I lack the capacity to feel pain... or have a heart, yet I think you have broke mine."

How unfortunate. I was hoping to have you come along willingly.

[ghoastixx]

Would these slashers make you take your meds? ageless and g/n reader

Includes: Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Bubba Sawyer, Nubbins Sawyer, Chop-Top Sawyer, Drayton Sawyer, Billy Lenz, Otis Driftwood, Baby Firefly, Billy Loomis & Stu Macher, Michael Myers (RZ), Carrie White, Hannibal Lecter & Will Graham, Brahams Heelshire, The lost boys

Content included: pills obviously though not specified, mentions of OD, urging to not take your meds (take your meds guys please), bad behavior, shame (kind of??)

Authors note: guys oml take your medicine don't listen to the murders. This is a work of fiction, your meds are here to help you. Trust me, I know it is a pain to take and or remember to take them, but they do help. Take them.

Inspired by me forgetting to take my medicine last night :(

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bo Sinclair

yeah, Bo would make you take your meds

"I already have to deal with running this whole town, don't make me run your medicine schedule."

I don't think he'd care much, but he gets pissy if you don't tell him when you are in need of a refill soon and wait til last minute so he has to go into town THAT DAY, he gets so mad about it

"Don't even try that 'I forgot' shit again,"

He just needs someone else sane around here

overall 7/10 he keeps you straight but lets you regulate yourself

Vincent Sinclair

Yes, and gets serious about it

He knows exactly how many refills you have, how many are in your bottles, how many milligrams, all of it

Only because he cares though

He will let you deal with it yourself, but he always makes sure to check at least once a day to see if you did

Whether it's shaking your bottle like a bag of cat treats or passing you a little note, he knows that it is important that you stay on them.

10/10 really nice about it, just wants you safe

Lester Sinclair

"If we gotta pay for 'em, you're takin' 'em"

I think that sums it up pretty well

5/10, never checks but gets upset about it

Bubba Sawyer

Not sure if he entirely understands

He would eventually come to the connection that days you take them are better than days that you do not,

If you explain it to him, he will definitely make sure to check in.

He would urge you to take them, but that's about it, it's more so just a thing in your busy lives.

3/10, you could get away with not taking them

Nubbins Sawyer

Let me hold your hand as I say this, he thinks that if you don't take them, you will die.

He just kind of has the connection that medicine = sickness, no matter how many times you try to explain it to him

He gets so scared

please don't do that to him

He will watch you take them please just take them sweetie

"Are you going to die-"

10/10 please he's shaking

Chop-Top Sawyer

He understands and does not give a shit whether you take them or not

He gets his own prescriptions from the VA hospital and Drayton keeps them locked up and regulated because he's convinced Chop would overdose or snort them,

not that Drayton cares, he just has too much going on.

"Shit, you don't wanna take 'em? Give 'em to me, I'll take 'em for ya, now we're both happy."

Don't do that

Drayton will know

1/10 will eat them like tic tacs for you

Drayton Sawyer

"Don't take 'em, I don't believe in that woke shit anyways."

Once he sees your doing worse though? He's singing a different tune

"Come on sugar, I'm already dealing with enough loonatics"

he didn't mean it that way I swear

He gets paranoid that you're gonna give them to Chop so he locks them up with his and you both go to him each morning and bat your eyelashes as he unlocks the cabinet and counts them out for you like an old man

8/10 you can't go wrong with it

Billy Lenz

Hell no

Bro doesn't even take his own medicine are you kidding?

He actively avoids his medicine, left them all at the facility

If you want to take them though, he could care less, but he also sort of urges you not to

he's a dick like that

Lowkey wants to get experimental with it

"h-how would B-Billy's p-piggy react if I m-mixed them with the others piggys pills?" meanwhile he's like drooling and shaking

hit him

don't let him poison you like that babe

I feel like though that he'd be a dick and when shaking Claude's treat bag he'd shake your bottle like they were treats

again hit him with a frying pan, you deserve better treatment then this

-5/10 I would lose my mind

Otis Driftwood

He doesn't believe in medicine unless he has a hangover or HE'S the sick one

Kind of like Drayton he wouldn't care if you didn't wanna take them unless you start causing him problems,

he wouldn't be as nice about it though

"You want me to shove them down your throat? Huh? That what you want? Didn't think so."

Just save yourself the trouble and take them

1/10 I would cry I think

Baby Firefly

Unpopular opinion, she'd get you to take them

I feel like if you're cool enough that she's noticing you not taking your meds? She cares about you. She's not just gonna let you ruin yourself

that's her job

"Hey sweetheart, got you this spoon of peanut butter, totally not anything suspicious."

sometimes you have to do what you have to do

She would trick you into it

"Well you ain't any fun if you're just... having a bad day."

7/10 her heart is in the right place

Billy Loomis and Stu Macher

They both would be pretty adamant about it

Billy gets all worried that this could somehow lead to them getting caught

Stu cares more about how it's affecting you

I feel like if they found out you weren't taking them, they'd have a sit down talk with you about it

Billy would make a schedule, he seems like a schedule guy

Stu would probably work in bribes or do what I like to do and chant "SHOT SHOT SHOT" with your chaser

10/10 pretty simple not much to write home about

RZ Michael Myers

he doesn't care

after all the different meds he was pumped with? He doesn't want that for you

he doesn't understand that they could help you

he 'loses' them for you

0/10 the worst, take your meds guys they aren't bad

Carrie White

she gets worried, poor thing

"If they weren't meant to help you, the doctors would not have given them to you."

will hold your hand through it

she doesn't really understand why you struggle with it, but she is supportive about it nonetheless

"medicine is here to help us :)"

11/10 I love her

Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham

you're in troubleeeee

Will freaks tf out

He just knows how beneficial medicine can be and this is very irrational to him

Hannibal being a literal psychiatrist isn't very pleased with you

he finds ways to like cook them into food or hide them

??/10 I didn't know really what to do with this one

Brahms Heelshire

He doesn't really understand why you're so against taking them

Isn't medicine here to help us?

He gets upset cause how are you supposed to take care of him if you're having a bad day?

8/10 picks up on it so fast

The Lost Boys

Will make you a vampire so you don't have to take meds

[snail-day]

hi hi hi snail!!!!

i have a big question for you sorry if you've already answer it!!

how do you think, out of yandere man, who would infantilise the reader the most and in which ways?

idk i just had a really weird random thought that some of them could be really dramatic during your period, insisting that you need special care like massages/stretches and etc with which they will of course help cause they believe you are too silly to know such things and cant be trusted to do them properly on your own (we all know where it ends tbh...)

thank you in advance with each of your post i fall in love more and more with your blog (and platonically with you (with your consent))🌹

❄️

mwah mwah mwah

Love you ❄️ anon!!! Apologies if this is bad. 😔 im a bit blind right now but this invaded my thoughts more than I'd like to admit.

TW: Infantilization, slight smut, period care (in his way), Humiliation, Yandere behaviors.

This is so Nanami coded but!! He doesn’t infantilize you by calling you baby names or dressing you in frills (though he does sometimes pat your head a little too often, acting like you’re a particularly slow student who finally got the answer right). He does it by removing your choices (isnt that so sweet?), and making it feel like he’s doing you a favor.

It starts with your period, sure. You're tired. He gets it. So let him handle dinner tonight. Let him draw the bath, pick your clothes, rub the cramps out of your belly with slow, circular movements while chastising you about how you always try to push yourself too hard.

Nanami doesn’t trust really most menstrual products. He’s read too many clinical papers, knows exactly how common TSS is and how poorly most products are regulated. He doesn't like the idea of anything being inserted unless it's medically necessary, or unless he’s the one putting it there. (You always get so squeamish when he tries to put the tampons in)

Tampons? Too invasive for yourself to do and you won't let him do it. Claiming its gross. So what if he's licking his fingers afterwards. Its you. Menstrual cups? Never, too foreign. Pads? Uncomfortable, messy. Sometimes they're bleached. What if you get a UTI? No. It’s all too much risk.

So, he handles it.

He doesn’t forbid you from using them. Not exactly.

He just starts leaving alternatives on your side of the bed. Softer, organic pads folded neatly in a linen pouch. Washable, reusable, gentler for your skin. No dyes. No fragrances. “Better for your pH,” he murmurs softly. “Less risk.”

He always says it so calmly. So kindly. And it’s hard to argue when he’s already drawing your bath, one hand stirring the water to check the heat while the other rests briefly on your waist, keeping his silly girl beside him. You don’t even notice how often you stop making your own decisions.

He insists on helping with cleanup. Always has. Not in a humiliating way, at least not in his eyes. Gentle touches. No fanfare. Just his hands and his voice and the faint scent of sandalwood as he kneels between your legs, work sleeves rolled up.

“Looks like you bled yourself again,” he says softly, more observation than complaint. “No, baby, they don’t make heavier ones (they do). Just let me take care of you, okay?”

His breath brushes against your damp ruined panties, and your thighs tense without meaning to. You can almost see the need in his eyes at the bloody mess you made.

“Sit back,” he murmurs. “I’ve got it. You just look pretty for me.”

His thumbs hook the sides of your panties, sliding them down with ease, his fingers grazing your skin with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. He steadies you with palms braced gently on your hips, firm enough to say stay still. His eyes flick up to your face, reading every microexpression as his hands return to the mess between your thighs.

But it’s never just that. You know that now.

Because the moment your breathing changes, the second your thighs twitch or your voice falters, he notices. Doesn’t stop.

“Sensitive today, aren’t we?” he hums, wiping you clean with slow, gentle movements. Not cruel. Not teasing. Just... aware. Like he’s logging each reaction, committing it to memory. His fingers linger, just slightly. Press a little firmer. Trace lower until you're bucking into his palm.

“You’d rush this,” he says gently, brushing along your skin with the cool damp towel. "It's why I need to take care of you"

He shifts to sit more comfortably, one hand stroking along your inner thigh while the other continues cleaning you, soft cloth passing over your folds, too tender to be neutral. Then he sets it aside.

“Are your cramps bad?” he asks, thumb beginning to draw slow, soothing circles over your clit. The tone is so sincere it makes your stomach twist. Like he really wants to know. Like he’s trying to ease them for you, and not get you wet.

But the pressure deepens. His thumb shifts lower, brushing against your slick entrance. His breathing stays calm, even as yours slips into something needy and short. When your hips buck, reflex, nothing more, he catches them with one large hand and holds you still.

“Oh?” he murmurs, low and thoughtful. “Is this helping... or am I making it worse?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s already kissing your belly, then your hipbone. His mouth brushes the plush curve of your inner thigh, reverent and hungry all at once. His other hand strokes your skin, thumb ghosting over the softest part of you like he’s trying to memorize the way it twitches.

“You’re not in the right state of mind to take care of this properly,” he says at last. And his voice is so calm, even now. Even with his face buried so close, his breath making you burn.

“Not when you’re like this,” he adds, lips brushing your skin.

Slow, precise strokes of his fingers dipping inside, testing what makes you gasp, what makes your walls flutter, how you pulse around nothing. He’ll edge you with just enough skill to make your belly tense up, to dull the pain into something soft, flushed, wet. Then he’ll ease off.

“This is what you need,” he says, curling his fingers inside you as you pant out needy whines, hips twitching. “Not pills. Not pads. Not anything foreign inside you.”

And then he pushes in deeper. One finger. Two fingers. Three if he feels like you're ready.

Slow, deep. Curling gently inside. Then maybe more. His mouth. His cock. Something thicker. He’s already cleaned you. You’re already in his care. What difference does it make now?

“You poor thing,” he whispers. “You never know what’s good for you until I show you, do you?”

But then it never stops there.

He orders your groceries. He tracks your supplements. He installs a cycle app on your phone but shares it to his own device too.

And if you argue?

Nanami never raises his voice. He doesn’t fight. He just tilts his head and asks, “Why would you want to take unnecessary risks?” Or worse, he’ll go quiet, disappointed. A quiet so heavy it makes your chest ache. Makes you feel guilty. So how could you not give in?

Because you know he’s not doing this to be cruel. You know he’s doing this because he loves you. Because he doesn’t trust you to care for yourself, not because you’re weak, but because you don’t value yourself as much as he does.

He’ll pick you up early from work without warning. You say, “You didn’t have to,” and he kisses your cheek and answers, “But I did.”

He’ll reorganize your closet to make sure only comfortable things remain. “You looked so uncomfortable in that skirt. I got rid of it.”

He going to control your world without ever admitting it’s control. It’s just what you need right now. Just until you’re better. Just until you can be trusted not to neglect your own well-being. At least thats what he keeps telling you.

[t1oui]

@jegulus-microfic | may 3rd: rush | 727 words

“Do I look alright?” James asks for the hundredth time. His voice sounds funny. “Merlin, do I sound alright? What am I even supposed to say?”

Sirius marches over to him, forcefully grabbing his shoulders and turning him around, away from the mirror.

“You say nice things,” he says sternly. “Because he is my baby brother.”

Sirius has been very supportive, James thinks.

“Right,” he agrees. His voice sounds a bit better now. Sirius nods.

“Don’t worry, Prongs,” Remus says, wandering over from his desk by the windows. “He’s crazy about you already.”

Sirius punches him in the arm. “My baby brother,” he says, an aggressive reminder. Remus holds his hands up in surrender. He turns back to James, waving his wand to cast a tempus. “Best get going,” he says. “You don’t want to be late.”

James checks the time: 10:53. Fuck. He’s supposed to be in the entrance hall by 11.

“Fuck,” he says out loud. Remus snorts. Sirius narrows his eyes.

“You better make this good, Potter,” he almost snarls. Remus places a hand on his shoulder to calm him. Peter rolls his eyes. He’s behind them, so only James can see.

“Bye,” James calls. It’s still warm enough out that he doesn’t need a coat. A little chilly, sure, but James has always run warm. He knocks on one of the wooden columns of Peter’s four-poster. “Bye, Pete.”

“Good luck, Prongs,” he replies, not looking up from his book.

James flies down the stairs and careens into the common room. He’s halfway to the portrait hole when someone grabs him for the second time today. He whirls around to find Lily smiling up at him, one hand on his shoulder and the other holding a pink rose.

“James,” she says softly. “Hey. Calm down.” She holds out the rose, and he takes it hesitantly. “Dora brought me a bouquet the other day,” she explains. “Thought you might want one?”

James stares at her for a moment. Then he nods. “Thank you, Lils.”

She waves him off, stepping away. “Don’t mention it,” she says. She nods to the portrait hole. “I’d get going if I were you.”

He nods, shouting one last thanks over his shoulder as he steps out. Lily shakes her head with a smile, heading back to her room.

James is going so fast that he nearly falls through a trick step. He stumbles, shakes it off, and continues running through the castle. He trips over a group of first years playing exploding snap on a landing. “Sorry!” he calls over his shoulder. The first years watch him with bewildered, confused expressions before going back to their game.

James steps into an alcove once he’s reached the bottom of the stairs, casting a tempus. 10:59. He has one minute. He flattens down his hair and regulates his breathing as much as he can before finally putting on a smile and stepping out. He spots Regulus almost immediately, standing in the entrance hall right where they agreed to meet. He’s got a book in one hand. As James approaches, he looks up from an expensive-looking watch, aristocratic features spreading into a warm smile.

“Right on time,” he says. James stutters to a stop taking him in. Regulus is wearing a dark blue button-up over black slacks and boots. His hair is neatly parted in the middle, pushing his short curls to either side of his face, hanging over his ears. He cocks his head to one side. “Are you alright?”

And it’s those three words, the way Regulus’s mouth moves around them, that inspire James to rush forward, closing the distance between them by swooping Regulus into a hug and pressing a kiss to his temple. Regulus laughs, tossing his arms around James’s shoulders. His laugh is so beautiful.

“Jamie,” he snorts. James presses their foreheads together and stares into Regulus’s eyes. They’re the color of clouds on a winter day. James could get lost in them. Regulus smiles at him. “This is a bit of a strong reaction for a first date, don’t you think?” he asks softly. James thinks. Thinks about the months of wanting, of loving, of needing. Thinks about Sirius gagging as loudly as possible when he kissed Regulus on Platform 9 ¾. James grins.

“No,” he says. “I don’t think.”

Regulus snorts, and James kisses his smile.

[fandom-go-round]

Hello! If you're still taking requests, I'd really appreciate it if you could please write some headcanons about Emmrich, Lucanis, Neve and Bellara dating a Rook who has pretty significant burn scars, particularly on their back, stomach, legs, arms, hands or feet. The scars are healed now, but they still consider them unsightly so they try to cover up as much as possible. I'd love to see your take on their reaction to Rook's scars being revealed to them for the first time.

Burn scars also come with a lot of complications like having to keep them out of sunlight, they often get pretty itchy and since skin regulates body temperature you can get cold super easily if you have significant burns. So if you want to include any of those factors feel free!

As someone who legit cannot be trusted around hot liquids and has scars from 2nd degree burns, I'd appreciate it, but if you don't want to write something like this I understand. Thank you, and I hope your day is going well!

Thank you so much for a Dragon Age request! I had a lot of fun with it!

Warnings: Burns, Talk of Burns, Previous Injuries, Implied Low Self Esteem, Implied Body Issues

Emmrich Volkarin:

As someone who usually wears layers when out and about, Emmrich doesn’t notice right away you’re covered almost always. He thinks of it as a personal style, at least until you’re exposed to the cold. It only takes one instance of fighting a desire demon and your hands to shake so bad you can’t hold your weapon for him to wonder. He won’t ask you of course, especially when Harding asks if you’re alright and you deflect.

The first time he sees your burns himself, Emmrich has a lot of thoughts. He can tell that you’re uncomfortable, not meeting his eyes as you continue to make dinner. It’s the first time he’s seen you in short sleeves and without gloves; you had thought you were alone at the Lighthouse. He wonders where you got the wounds and how but instead, he apologizes for starling you and asks if he can help. You agree to let him help and it takes almost a full hour for the tension to leave your shoulders. Emmrich is happy to wait as long as possible for you to trust him.

The longer the two of you are together, the more you open up about your scars. Emmrich is willing to listen to anything you say and go at your own pace. He’ll go out of his way to buy you embroidered gloves that you adore and has no issues steering the others away from the topic. He’ll hesitate to touch your scars because he doesn’t want to hurt you but once you assure he can touch, he loves kissing your everywhere. Scars are a part of you but they don’t define you.

Lucanis Dellamorte:

He’s one of the first companions to notice, mostly because he has some burns himself. Not as wide spread as yours but Crow training wasn’t kind to him and he sees the way you favor warm over cold and how your legs get itchy after being in Rivani. Lucanis makes sure to cook warm meals and uses ingredients that help with itchiness. He’s a silent supporter from the beginning.

The extent of your scars makes hm angry. He has no way of knowing (at first) where your scars come from and assumes them to be a battle gone wrong. Spite often speaks of hunting the people down who hurt you and he’s inclined to agree. If he finds out the burns are because of an accident he’s going to hover more. If you’re this accident prone he’ll be your silent shadow so you don’t get hurt again. Tell him off if he hovers too much; Lucanis will find something else to help with.

He has no issues touching your scars but will make sure you’re alright with it first. He never wants to make you uncomfortable and watches for your verbal and nonverbal ques. Lucanis will do whatever he can to help you feel better; putting on ointment, buying you new clothing, whatever you’d like. He won’t let anyone talk down to you. He’s protective on a good day and if someone tries to say anything about your scars? His knife is already at their throat.

Bellara Lutare:

Bellara doesn’t realize you have burn scars until you take your coat off, wet from being slammed into the lake. It took her and Davrin combined to pull you out and you’re swearing up a storm as you strip. Davrin just teases you about losing your footing before going to find firewood. Bellara doesn’t catch herself staring until you turn away and she busies getting the camping set out.

She doesn’t bring the scars up until the two of you are alone, checking in. Mostly she wants to make sure you’re not in pain and if you are, she can make burn cream. Someone in her clan had burns like yours that bothered them. You’re surprised by her practical offer and kiss her cheek, thankful for her support. You take her up on the offer, especially when you end up on the coast. The hot air makes you super itchy.

It becomes a habit for her to help you put the burn cream on your back since it’s hard for you to reach. It’s a soft moment inside the normal day to day chaos. Bellara loves that you trust her enough to let her do this and gets to touch you. Her face is red by the end and you tease her but its worth all the teasing to see the soft look in your eyes. Once of these days she’s going to get her nerve to kiss you, she promises!

Neve Gallus:

Neve figured you were using clothing to cover up something. Most people don’t wear as many layers as you and it a toss up between scars or you really are that much trouble. The truth is, as always, a little bit of both. You naturally run cold but it’s more than that. The first time she sees your scars, she’ll admit she wasn’t expecting them. She knows that jobs can go wrong, she just wishes you were luckier.

She won’t talk about the scars unless you bring them up. She understands how it feels for others to judge you based on old wounds; she’s almost punched people because of her leg. Neve does go out of her way to get you warm drinks to hold and buys you long pants as yours get ruined. The detective side of her wants to know how you got the scars but she does her damnedest to keep those thoughts to herself.

Neve can’t help but kiss the scars when she can, almost without thinking. Clothes on or off, she’ll kiss the palm of your hand or rub your shoulder. Let her know if the touching is too much and she’ll back off. She accepts every part of you, scared or not. She likes the flustered look on your face, it isn’t often she throws you off. Neve can and will use it to her advantage.

[luvendiary]

ripped / k. kogane

keith kogane x reader

summary: you lost something of great importance of you during a mission. it may seem trivial, but then why is it ripping you from the iside out? a/n: this is my first time writing for keith. but i've been in love with him since i was 13, which is crazy. i remember i discovered the 1975 (which is now part of my personality) thanks to a keith kogane fanfiction on wattpad. not proofread. 5.9k words. no use of y/n.

You didn’t say a word on the way back.

Not when the mission ended. Not when the comms fizzled out, and you gave the signal for pickup. Not when Keith called your name—twice, softly, then louder—but you turned your back to him and faced the cargo wall instead.

He didn’t push. He never did when you shut down like this. His instinct was always to observe first, wait until you were ready. That was one of the things that made being with Keith… easy, even in the middle of war. He never asked you to be stronger than you were.

But right now, you wished someone would ask. Demand it of you. Then maybe, you would feel better about it. I wasn’t like you lost an arm or a leg. You walked away unscathed. But then, why did it feel like a part of you had been ripped away?

When you entered the meeting room, everyone was already there. Of course they were, you had to stay back for a moment, regain your strength for what was coming.

The room was cold. Not physically — the Castle’s systems regulated temperature perfectly — but emotionally. Sterile. Bright. Clinical.

Shiro stood tall, poised and commanding as always. Lance tried to make a joke the moment you entered, something about how you were going without dinner tonight due to losing your race. You didn’t laugh.

Your report had been sent in through the team channel, dry and factual. You’d completed the mission. Escaped. Neutralized the threat. But even as Allura outlined the results, there was a tension in the air. A current. Something everyone felt but didn’t understand

After a moment, she congratulated you on a successful mission. That was brief, however, for not a moment later she was already projecting a map of the next galaxy. You weren’t sure exactly what for, everything was muffled and distant.

“You alright?” Keith whispered next to you. You felt his hand secretly reaching out for yours, but as if it carried electricity, yours flinched away immediately.

He was hurt by this, you could tell by how his head sharply turned to look at you, his brow furrowed in concern. He was trying to make out your expression, but he couldn’t not with your helmet still on.

Allura turned to you, you could tell she knew something was wrong. “Paladin. Is there anything you’d like to report?”

You didn’t answer.

Your breath echoed faintly inside your helmet, each inhale shallow and too loud in your ears. Everyone was waiting, eyes on you now. You could feel it. The room felt too small.

“Paladin?” Allura prompted again, her voice gentler this time. Not as a commander, but as someone who knew now something was incredibly wrong.

Still, you said nothing.

Instead, with slow, deliberate hands, you reached up for your helmet, which came off with a sharp hiss.

You lifted it off, carefully, like if you made the wrong motion, you might shatter.

The air hit your skin.

And then they saw.

The sharp inhale was audible.

Your hair—your long, memory-woven hair—was gone. Cropped close in uneven layers. Frayed, burned at the ends. A choppy, desperate cut.

The beads were gone too. Dozens of them—each one added in remembrance. Each one a story. A piece of your soul.

You’d worn your hair like a tapestry of your people. You were known for it—thick, lustrous, flowing past your waist, decorated with vibrant beads to honor the fallen, to carry their memory forward. In your culture, hair was sacred. It was said to hold memories. Spirit. When someone passed, you wove their bead into your strands so they could journey with you.

Now… now you were empty.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, trailing silently over the grime and ash that clung to your skin.

That was the only crack in your armor. The only sign that inside, you were screaming.

No one spoke.

Pidge’s eyes widened, mouth slightly parted in shock.

Hunk’s expression crumbled instantly.

Lance’s joke died completely on his lips. He looked stricken. Like the ground had shifted beneath him.

Shiro stepped forward—but only a fraction. His brows knit in quiet sorrow, like he was watching a soldier relive a battlefield.

And Allura—

Allura understood first.

You saw it in the soft parting of her lips, the subtle tremble in her voice when she whispered, “Your hair…”

It wasn’t vanity. It was history. It was grief and blood and names woven into each strand.

“I had to,” you said, finally. Voice hollow.

You faintly heard Allura whisper your name as she stepped down and went to comfort you. 

“He grabbed me,” you said next, your voice now coming back to you. As if up until this moment you had been on autopilot, and now, with Allura’s hands softly holding on to your elbow, you had been brought back to reality. “He wouldn’t let go, and he was pulling me toward—” your voice broke. 

You remembered the fire, how the flames had drawn closer and closer as you thrashed against the Galran soldier’s hold. The smoke clawing into your lungs. The burn of the heat licking at your boots.

“I could feel it,” you whispered, shaking your head slowly. “The heat. It was right there. I saw it—my hair—starting to catch. Just the ends, but—”

Your voice cracked, and suddenly it was like it wasn’t just memory anymore. It was happening again.

“I—I didn’t even cut it clean. It just ripped.” You looked up, finally meeting their eyes. “Some of it fell in. Into the fire.”

That’s when it hit.

Not just the grief. Not just the shock.

The loss.

The kind that hollowed you out from the inside.

Your knees buckled. You dropped your helmet to the floor with a dull clang, and Keith caught you before you hit your knees.

You didn’t mean to cry.

But the sob that tore from your throat was raw and unfiltered, full of every unspoken goodbye that had burned in that fire.

“My family was in there,” you gasped, barely audible.

You couldn’t stop the way your body shook—grief like a tide pulling you under, dragging you deeper with every crashing wave.

Keith held you like he could keep you tethered to the surface.

He didn’t flinch at your weight. Didn’t hesitate for a second when you broke apart in his arms. His voice was in your ear—quiet, grounding murmurs, like he was trying to stitch you back together one word at a time. But it sounded far away, drowned out by the millions of voices you had lost. 

You barely registered Shiro’s hand on your shoulder, steady and warm. Or the way Allura knelt beside you, gently brushing some of the ash-matted strands from your forehead.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Shiro said softly. “Come on. You don’t have to be strong right now.”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure you could walk.

Keith helped you to your feet, never letting go. Your legs were trembling—rubbery and weak, like they no longer belonged to you—but between the three of them, you didn’t fall again. Shiro braced one side. Allura the other. And Keith stayed pressed to your back, arms never straying far in case you slipped again.

The rest of the team made space without a word.

The walk to your room felt longer than it was. A walk of shame.

When the door slid open, you hesitated on the threshold.

This was your room.

But you didn’t feel the same.

Like the part of you who used to live here, was still out there, stuck in the fire.

Keith noticed your hesitation. “I’ll stay with you.”

You didn’t even nod. Just stepped in, and he followed behind you without asking.

Allura touched your arm. “We’ll give you space. But we’re right here if you need anything.”

You didn’t have the strength to say thank you. But the way your eyes flicked to her said enough.

Then the door hissed shut behind them.

You didn’t know what to do. You stood there for a long moment, afraid that attempting to take a step in any direction would make you crumble again. 

Your head raced with thoughts. What were you supposed to do now? Everything seemed pointless and futile. Everything but, just standing there. Maybe if you didn’t move ever again, you wouldn’t feel the weightlessness that now clung to you like a ghost.

Wash your face?

You imagined the water running through your hands—cold, clean, normal—and recoiled at the thought. You didn’t want to see your face in the mirror. Not with your hair like this. Not when you looked like someone else. Not when your reflection would only ask the same questions you didn’t have answers to.

Change out of your armor?

But your armor was the only thing still on you that hadn’t burned. The only thing still whole. Without it, you'd just be a silhouette. Empty fabric. No weight.

Lie down?

Your bed looked too soft. Like it would swallow you if you touched it. And what would you even do there—close your eyes and pretend this hadn’t happened? The second you tried to rest, you knew your mind would replay it all. The fire. The tearing. The smoke.

You shifted on your feet, arms stiff at your sides.

None of it made sense anymore. Not your routine. Not the comfort objects in your room. Not the beads that used to hang above your headboard—they weren’t there. You’d taken them down days ago to add more, and never had the chance. Now there was nothing. Just bare string. Mocking you.

Keith hadn’t said anything. He stood a few steps behind you, unmoving, like he knew you needed space to let the panic settle. But he was watching—carefully. Quietly.

You didn’t cry again. You couldn’t. You were past that now. Wrung dry.

But your breath kept catching in your chest in that uneven way. Like your body was trying to remember how to exist with the hole that had been carved out of you.

Keith stepped forward once.

You didn’t react.

Then again, slowly. He didn’t reach for you this time. Didn’t try to hold you or say something that would only echo off the walls of your detachment. Instead, his hand gently ghosted past yours and landed lightly at the small of your back.

Not pressure.

Just presence.

And that, somehow, was worse. It made the ache deeper. Realer.

Your shoulders sank. You didn’t want to move—but you also couldn’t stay standing. Your body was catching up to the exhaustion your mind had been trying to outrun.

He felt it. The way you started to sway. The way your weight shifted, not with intention, but surrender.

Keith didn’t speak. He just guided.

Slowly, he led you to the bed. One step at a time. Not rushed, not forceful. When your knees touched the edge of the mattress, you stopped again.

He gave you time.

And when you sat—mechanically, like it wasn’t even a decision you made—he knelt in front of you, hands still careful and light as if you might shatter on contact.

You stared past him, eyes glassy and unfocused. Then, finally, you sank down sideways, lying on your side atop the blankets, still in armor, still dusty and singed and stiff. You didn’t care.

You didn’t say a word.

Keith didn’t either.

He sat at the edge of the bed beside you, one hand resting lightly near yours, not quite touching.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

Your eyes stayed open. Blinking slowly. Chest rising and falling with a shallow rhythm.

And Keith stayed there, quiet and grounded, like he knew this wasn’t something he could fix. He wasn’t trying to. He was just… here.

He looked at you only when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

You did. And you stared back. 

The castle felt quieter lately.

Not in the way it powered down during travel, or in the way voices hushed before missions. This was a different quiet. One that settled between the walls like dust—unnoticed by most, but heavy all the same.

You hadn’t said much since that night. You answered when spoken to. Ate enough not to raise concern. Trained, but not like before. You moved like your body had weight, but no momentum.

And always, after lights-out, you disappeared to the observatory deck.

Alone.

Tonight was no different.

You sat by the curved window in a tucked-away alcove, knees pulled loosely to your chest, armor swapped out for a simple pajama. The stars shimmered outside, scattered like the beads that used to line your hair.

You traced your fingers over the cropped ends again. They still felt foreign. The edges rough, not yet healed. It had grown a fraction already, but it made you feel worse. Like every inch of regrowth only reminded you how much was gone.

You had stopped crying. But that didn’t mean the ache was gone. It had just gone deeper. Quieter.

You told yourself you were being ridiculous.

Because it was just hair.

Just hair.

Not an arm like Shiro.

Not a family like Pidge.

Not a voice that once belonged to a home.

But every time your mind circled back to the loss, to the weight in your chest, a fresh wave of guilt followed.

You were mourning hair.

You were the last of your people.

The last to carry the sacred tradition of beads woven into memory.

The last to bear witness.

And yet… here you were. Grieving strands of keratin. Beads. Memory tokens.

You tried to push the grief down.

Everyone here had scars heavier than yours, traumas stitched into their bones.

You felt guilty for mourning. Like you were taking up space in the pain room that someone else needed more.

A whisper of movement behind you made you stiffen.

You didn’t look up.

Allura’s voice followed, soft and deliberate. “You shouldn’t be alone every night.”

You didn’t answer.

She didn’t ask to sit—just joined you, her legs folding gracefully beneath her, gaze out toward the stars.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Eventually, she asked, “Do you know what we did with hair on Altea?”

You blinked, surprised.

“I—I assume it was similar to my home. Symbolic.”

She smiled faintly. “It was more than that. Like your people, we believed hair was sacred. A physical connection to memory. When someone passed, their hair was kept by their closest kin. Not hidden away—but braided into ceremonial ribbons. Worn when the time came to remember them.”

Your throat tightened.

“I keep thinking,” you said hoarsely, “that I should be over it.”

Allura turned, eyebrows gently lifting.

“It was just hair.”

Her gaze didn’t soften.

“No,” she said. “It wasn’t. And you know that.”

You looked away again. “But it wasn’t an arm. Or a home planet. Or a family.”

“It was your family,” Allura said firmly. “The way you carried them. The way you honored them. Those beads… they were your history. You didn’t just lose strands. You lost a tether.”

You bit your lip, eyes stinging. She wasn’t coddling you. She was telling the truth. And somehow, that hurt more than anything else had these past few days.

“I feel so empty,” you admitted, voice barely there.

“You are mourning,” Allura replied. “Not the way others have. Not for the same things. But what you lost mattered.”

You stayed quiet, but the shaking of your shoulders betrayed you.

Allura reached out slowly, brushing a piece of your short hair behind your ear. Her touch lingered, not to fix you, but to ground you.

“When your heart breaks,” she said softly, “the pieces don’t care how big the reason was. They fall just the same.”

You leaned your forehead to the glass, breathing in shaky gulps.

“I don’t know how to carry them anymore,” you whispered. “The ones I lost.”

Allura’s voice was calm. “You already are.”

Days started blurring into each other as you tried to get back to your normal routine. 

Everything felt like a drag. The most miniscule of tasks often taking the longest. 

However, there was a constant in your life. A steady unwavering presence, keeping you anchored — Keith.

He never asked. He never forced conversation. Sometimes he simply sat across the room, tracing constellations on the wall with a finger or sharpening his knives, letting silence fill the space between you

He didn’t crowd you with words or demands. Instead, he stayed quiet, steady—like the ground beneath your feet when the world threatened to spin out of control.

He was there when you woke, when you stared blankly at your reflection, when your fingers absentmindedly traced the ragged edges of your hair.

He was there when you sat on the balcony, shoulders tight, eyes hollow..

You knew he meant well.

Keith always did.

But the way he lingered in doorways, the way he subtly followed you when you wandered too far from the main halls, the way he kept glancing at you when you took too long to answer a question—it all built up like pressure behind your ribs.

Like everyone was walking on glass around you.

Like you were glass.

And for what? For hair? For something so stupid?

You couldn’t even get through a workout without someone checking if you were overdoing it. Or see a hallway conversation quiet down when you walked past. Everyone tiptoeing around your grief like it was something delicate, when all it felt like was rage.

It happened in the training deck.

You missed a shot, something you normally would’ve brushed off with a grunt and a quip.

But Keith stepped closer instead. Not saying anything—just hovering, brows drawn in concern.

And you snapped.

“What?” you barked.

He froze.

“I didn’t—”

You turned around sharply, your blade retracting as you did. “You didn’t have to, I can feel it. You hover over me, like I’m a porcelain doll. Like I’ll break at any moment.”

Keith’s mouth opened slightly. He didn't speak. You didn’t let him.

“But I won’t, okay? Not over this ridiculous, pointless thing that doesn’t even matter.”

Your eyes were burning.

He took a step forward. You took a step back.

You felt like a bomb, something that would explode at any moment. And your better judgement told you that Keith should not be collateral damage. So you pushed him away.

“Just stop looking at me like that,” you hissed, voice trembling. 

“Like what?” His voice was low and steady. 

“Like I’m fragile. Like you’re waiting for me to crack open.”

Keith didn’t move. His eyes searched yours, but you couldn’t tell what for. Answers? Patience? Understanding?

You hated it.

You hated how still he was. How gentle he was.

Because it made you feel like you weren’t allowed to be angry.

And you were. God, you were so angry.

“At least yell back,” you snapped. “Say something. Tell me I’m being stupid. Because I am. This was just hair. Just—” Your voice broke, and your hands clenched at your sides. “Just hair. You’re thinking it. Everyone in this stupid place is.”

You couldn’t stop the tears now. They came fast, stinging hot trails down your cheeks.

You turned away, scrubbing angrily at your face, but the tears kept coming—faster now, messier. The kind that made your chest hitch in a way you couldn’t control.

You hated that most of all.

Your grief had been so quiet for days. It sat inside you like a stone. Heavy. Still.

But now it had cracked open, and everything ugly and loud and furious was spilling out.

“I can’t even be upset without it feeling like a performance,” you gasped, voice raw. “Everyone keeps acting like I lost a limb or a loved one and I—I cut my hair, Keith.”

The silence that followed made you want to scream. You spun on him, wild-eyed. “Why aren’t you saying anything?!”

“Because you’re hurting,” he said simply. “And I don’t want to take that from you.”

That stopped you in your tracks. Like cold water.

You tried to claw back at the anger in you. You could feel it receding, fading into your chest, and you desperately wanted it back. Because at least that way you wouldn't feel so numb all the time.

Your face scrunched, as if you were about to snarl at him. Instead you let out a loud groan and threw your weapon across the room, as you threw yourself against the nearest wall. You slid down, palms pressing against your eyes.

Your knees didn’t buckle this time, but you wished they had. At least then it would’ve felt like someone else was forcing you to fall.

But it was just you. You, finally crumbling under everything you'd buried.

Keith didn’t speak. He just stepped forward and sat next to you. 

You allowed silence to settle between you two. Only being filled by the sound of your sobs and shakes. You felt so extremely pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered eventually, voice paper-thin. “I didn’t mean to snap. I just…”

Keith didn’t move, didn’t interrupt. He sat cross-legged beside you, shoulder barely brushing yours, like any more pressure might break the air between you.

“I don’t know who I am without it,” you said. “It wasn’t just hair. I know it sounds dumb, but it wasn’t. I grew up with it, Keith. My mom braided it. My brother braided it. My birthdays, every solstice, every loss…it was all there.”

Your throat closed on you. You let out a shaky breath. 

You looked down at your hands. At the calluses, the small tremors, the smudge of sweat and training deck dust across your palms. You clenched them hard.

“It was the one part of me that still felt like home.”

Keith was quiet for a while. Then, softly: “I don’t think it’s dumb.”

You hummed, not daring to look at him yet. You pressed your knees against your chest. Maybe if you made yourself small enough, the pain wouldn’t have enough space to thrive.

“I think it’s brave,” he said. “The way you carry people with you.”

You turned your head to find his eyes were already fixed on you. 

“I didn’t know how to help,” he went on, slower now. “But I didn’t want to leave you alone either. So I stayed. I guess… I just hoped it was enough.”

Your lip trembled again. You wanted to say something. Thank him perhaps. But every time you tried to open your mouth, more tears spilled.

Before you could say anything, Keith reached into his pocket.

“I didn’t know when to give these to you.”

Carefully, like he was handing over something fragile, he unwrapped a piece of cloth.

Three beads lay in the center.

Charred. Smoke-stained. But still whole.

“I found them in the wreckage,” he said. “Recognized them. I didn’t know what to do with them. I didn’t even know if I should say anything. But I kept them.”

You stared at them. Your breath caught in your throat.

You reached out slowly, brushing your fingers over the beads. They were warm from his pocket. Worn smooth by memory.

You took them in your palm like they were sacred.

Another cry escaped your throat. You pressed them against your lips. “These were my brothers’.”

Keith’s gaze lowered to analyze the two beads you were pointing at. Your finger moved to pick up the third bead and you lifted it up to eye-level. You laughed a teary-laugh.

“This was for when we got our pet. I was seven.”

You allowed yourself to cry for them for a moment longer. Covering them with the cloth, you didn’t want them to be stained by your grief. 

“Thank you,” you said after a while, and it sounded broken.

Keith didn’t reply. He just gently reached out, pinkie extended.

You didn’t hesitate this time as you intertwined your fingers together.

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t leave.

Something was different the next morning.

You couldn’t quite name it. It wasn’t that the weight was gone—grief didn’t vanish overnight—but the pressure that had been sitting on your chest for days… had shifted.

For the longest time, you felt as if it had been looming over you— a suffocating cloud of darkness that would not let you breathe properly.

But on this particular morning, you found grief sitting next to you. As if it was an old friend.

Keith had stayed with you again. Fell asleep in the chair beside your bed, head tipped slightly forward, arms crossed in that way he always sat—like he was half-ready to jump into battle if needed. The dim blue glow of the castle lights painted his face soft and muted.

He hadn’t spoken much last night after giving you the beads.

He hadn’t needed to.

He stayed. That was enough.

You slipped quietly out of bed, padded into the bathroom, and stood in front of the mirror.

Your reflection didn’t surprise you anymore. The rough, jagged edges of your hair had become familiar. You’d stopped flinching. Stopped looking away.

But this morning… for the first time, you reached for the brush.

The bristles caught in places. Snagged on the uneven strands. You worked carefully, untangling them one by one. You didn't rush. There was no one watching, no one expecting. Just you, in your own time.

When the tangles were gone, you stared for a while. Just breathed.

Then, slowly, you parted a section of hair behind your right ear.

Fingers steady.

You began to braid.

The motion was instinct. Muscle memory.

Over. Under. Over again.

And when you reached halfway down, you paused.

You walked back into the room and opened the drawer where you'd carefully placed them the night before.

The beads Keith had saved.

You threaded them onto the end of the braid, fingers slow but sure.

They clicked gently together. Familiar.

You tied it off with a scrap of twine.

Then you turned to the other side and braided again—smaller this time, nothing fancy. You weren’t trying to recreate what you’d lost. Just… carry it forward.

Two braids. Simple. Steady.

You didn’t cry.

But you smiled.

Just barely.

For a moment, you felt anger resurface in your chest again at the reflection. The smile felt fake and forced. 

You closed your eyes, breathed deeply and tried again.

You didn’t force it to reach your eyes, you didn’t even show your teeth. But it felt like a step in the right direction.

You heard Keith stir behind you. After a brief moment he joined you in the bathroom, standing behind you, assessing your reflection. He blinked sleepily, eyes still heavy with rest.

He smiled before leaning over you. Resting his head on your shoulder and pressing a small kiss on your cheek.

It didn’t happen all at once.

You didn’t wake up suddenly fine. No one expected you to.

But day by day, moment by moment, things began to shift.

It started the day you braided your hair again.

You walked into the dining hall for breakfast—not late, not hiding—and the room went quiet. Not like before, when everyone froze in shock or uncertainty. This time, it was reverent.

Because they saw the beads.

You sat beside Pidge without saying anything.

She just offered you a slice of toast with a nod, and you took it.

That was enough.

Later that evening, you joined them again. This time, for game night.

It was Lance who noticed first. His head snapped up when you entered, already in the middle of dramatically losing to Hunk in a trivia round.

He opened his mouth, probably to say something extremely Lance, but for once—he didn’t.

Instead, he offered you a seat beside him.

“You’re just in time to lose horribly,” he said with a grin.

You rolled your eyes. “You say that like it’s new.”

Laughter bubbled around the table. It wasn’t the loudest or brightest night—but it was the first one that felt normal again.

You didn’t hide after that.

You showed up for training. You helped Pidge fix a communication relay. You teased Keith under your breath during sparring, and he smirked that tiny smirk of his in return.

You still had hard days. Quiet mornings. Moments where the grief crawled up your throat unexpectedly. But you let yourself feel them now. You didn’t bottle them up.

You welcomed it in. Like an old friend who had been hurting just like you. You tried to sit with it as long as possible.

Slowly, it got easier. 

You found that keeping a routine helped you. Small moments during the day you could rely on. At night, when the castle had gone mostly quiet, you stepped out onto the observatory deck.

The stars stretched overhead in waves—endless, cold, beautiful. Your eyes flicked up to them instinctively, mapping constellations you’d memorized as a child. Looking for home, even if it wasn’t there anymore.

You heard footsteps behind you but didn’t turn.

“I figured you’d be here,” Keith said softly, joining you at the railing. “You always are, after game night.”

You shrugged. “Old habits.”

He leaned beside you, his presence steady and unintrusive.

You were quiet together for a while, just watching.

You glanced at him, eyes soft. “Thanks for not disappearing.”

He looked at you like that was the strangest thing you could’ve said. “I never planned to.”

You both went quiet again, the silence this time not heavy, but peaceful.

Eventually, you took a deep breath, and reached up to touch the braid just behind your ear. The beads clicked softly against your fingers.

“I think I’ll add another braid tomorrow,” you said.

Keith glanced over, his mouth quirking slightly. “Yeah?”

“Something to look forward to. I’ll make it a wish, and I’ll keep it with me.”

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, then drifted back to the stars.

“Good,” he said. “You deserve those too.”

It became a quiet tradition after that.

For every mission completed, for every planet visited, for every birthday, for every night you let yourself laugh again—another bead was added.

Some were simple. Others glittered with strange materials from alien markets. A few you carved yourself, late at night with a scalpel and a steady hand, shaping memory into something tangible.

Your hair grew longer by the week—awkward at first, the regrowth uneven and unruly—but you didn’t hide it. You wore it loose more often now, sometimes in partial braids, other times pulled back with old cords or woven bands.

Each bead had meaning.

For your brothers.

For the night you started to feel like yourself again.

For the planet with twin moons and singing trees.

For the day Pidge built you a scanner that could record constellations and name them after anything you wanted.

They were yours.

And you carried them with quiet pride.

That night, you were late to dinner. You’d been helping Coran fix a glitch in the water filtration system (which was mostly him gesturing wildly and you pretending to understand the nonsense he was spewing).

As you made your way toward the dining hall, you heard it—hushed voices, hurried shuffling, then an unnatural stillness.

You paused just outside the door, frowning.

Then stepped in.

The silence was immediate.

Allura froze mid-step. Hunk nearly dropped a spoon. Lance blinked like you’d caught him sneaking something. Pidge’s face was unreadable. Keith was at the edge of the room, arms crossed but his eyes very, very focused on you.

You blinked.

“What?” you asked, glancing around. “Do I have something on my face?”

No one said anything. 

You rolled your eyes, moving casually toward the fridge. “Seriously, you guys are acting like I just walked in with a Galran warlord or something.”

Behind you, Keith cleared his throat.

You paused, slowly turning.

Shiro stepped forward, hands folded behind his back, voice a little more formal than usual. “We, uh… we’ve been meaning to give you something.”

You blinked. “…Okay.”

Everyone exchanged glances. Then Hunk stepped forward, holding something in his hands.

A small, shallow bowl.

He offered it to you with both palms, almost reverently.

Your brow furrowed. You glanced at him, then down.

Inside were seven beads.

Each unique. Each clearly chosen with care.

You were speechless.

Your fingers hovered over the bowl, and you couldn’t look up. Your throat was suddenly too tight.

“Mine’s glittery,” Lance said proudly, as he pointed in the general direction of his bead. “Obviously.”

“You don’t have to wear them,” Allura spoke up. “We just wanted you to have them, they’re yours to do as you please.”

She understood. More than anyone. She was the last of her kind, too. The last to carry tradition. The last to remember. And here she stood, offering a piece of herself to help you carry yours.

You smiled down at the bowl, feeling tears prick at your eyes.

They weren’t the same kind that had haunted you weeks ago—sharp, angry, uncontrollable.

These were soft and gentle.

You laughed. Breathy and uncontrollable. The tears didn’t stop.

That seemed to be the response they all needed. The tension in the room melted like morning frost. 

Like a blooming spring after the longest and coldest of winters.

Later that night, you sat on the floor of your room, legs crossed, bowl of beads beside you. 

Your hair had grown more than you realized. It brushed just past your shoulders now.

You braided slowly. You took your moment with each bead, adding them to the same braid. Just beside the one for your brothers.

Fingers careful, breath even, you wove in Lance’s glittering mess of a charm. Hunk’s small piece of meteorite, Allura’s polished marble, Coran’s slightly off centered one… 

You chuckled softly, lips tugging up.

The room was quiet, still. The kind of peace you’d once forgotten how to find.

But then—you felt it.

A shift in the air. You turned, instinctively.

Keith stood in the doorway. Leaning against the frame, arms folded. His eyes were on you, but not in a way that made you feel watched. It was gentler than that.

When your eyes met his, he smiled. A small, rare thing that crinkled the corner of his eyes.

You smiled back.

“Thought you’d be on the observatory deck,” you said softly.

“Thought you’d be up there too,” he replied, stepping in slowly. “Guess we were both wrong.”

You turned slightly, patting the spot on the floor beside you. “Come here.”

Keith walked over and sat down next to you without question, his knee touching your thigh. He looked down at the bowl still resting beside your knee.

“You’ve added them,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

“Not all of them yet,” you replied.

You picked up the last one.

His.

Small. Dark red. Steady in your palm.

You turned to him, tilting your head slightly.

“Do you want to braid it in?”

Keith blinked. His eyes flicked from your face to the bead in your hand, then back.

“I… can?”

You nodded. “It’s yours. If you want it there.”

His fingers hovered for a second—uncertain, reverent.

Then he reached out, and you turned so your back faced him. Gently, you lifted the braid for him to see.

Keith was quiet as he worked. Careful, deliberate. His fingers brushed your hair like it was sacred.

When he finished, he let his hand rest for just a moment longer than needed. Then he sat back.

“There,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You turned around and faced the mirror again. The bead glinted faintly beneath the rest—small, subtle, solid.

You smiled.

“Perfect,” you said.

He looked at your reflection in the mirror.

“Yeah, perfect.”

[mongoosingisme]

And now for something completely different

(Shell, I blame you)

Title: Untitled Shelliott Ranch Shorts - Part 1 (Bedtime)

Word Count: ~1300

Includes: nightmares, hot cocoa, fluffiest fluff that ever did fluff, Elliott, Shane, and Jas

Rating: G… I think? There’s a little cussin’ in there (thanks, Shane), but no objectionable content?

Bedtime was Elliot’s favorite time on the ranch. Things slowed down. Things came together. Jas tucked in. Shane sitting on the side of her bed. Elliott in Jas’s little desk chair, reading to her for as long as she could keep her eyes open.

“You don’t have to go that long,” Shane had said once.

“Should I not?” Elliott truly had no clue.

“I like your stories.” They’d thought she was asleep, but her eyes were still bright under heavy lids.

So he read. Stories he hadn’t heard since he was a child. Stories he associated with his mother’s voice. He wondered if she felt the way he now did, the weight of years supported by the lattice of generations. The words of an author now dead. The voice of a man midlife. The ears of a child with so much in front of her.

“If you say so,” Shane had said when he tried to explain it to him. “I’m just glad she’s asleep.”

Elliott was glad too.

She didn’t always sleep well, Jas. Like tonight, when his heart leapt against his chest as her cries tore him out of a dream. Shane was already moving, throwing on a shirt and stumbling down the hall. Elliott imagined he could see the trail of panic left in his wake, a vacuum formed by instinct and insecurity.

Elliott moved a little more slowly, gave his body a chance to regulate before following. He waited outside Jas’s doorway, listened as she and Shane spoke.

“It’s gonna burn down!” The small voice was wet and trembling.

“It’s not, peanut. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

A hiccup, a shaking breath. Another cry. “But what if it does?”

“Then I’ll grab you and we’ll run to Leah’s house.” Shane’s voice was soft and calm in a way it only was on nights like these.

“But what if you get burned up?”

“I won’t. I wear fireproof pajamas.”

A sniff. A shuddering breath. Another sob. “But what about Elliott?”

“I’ll grab him too.”

“But he’s bigger than you!”

“It’s okay. I’m really strong.”

He was.

But Jas was still crying. No words now, just wails and Shane’s quiet sushing. Elliott couldn’t see it, but he could imagine the way she clung to him.

A minute.

A few.

Quieter, then: “can we check the alarms?”

“Sure thing, peanut.”

Elliott retreated to the kitchen, busied himself with pouring milk into a pot, setting it on the stove. He could hear them making their rounds. First outside Jas’s room. A grunt as Shane lifted her up, then an alarm pierced the night.

Next, Marnie’s shop. The same: a grunt and the wail of the alarm.

The milk was beginning to steam as they made it to the kitchen. “Hi, Elliott.” Jas’s voice was as small as she looked, cradled in Shane’s arms.

“Hello, my little dove. Would you like to join me in some hot cocoa?” Elliott smiled as she nodded, then gestured to the remaining alarm. “Perhaps you could check this one first? It’d make me feel better to know it’s working, since I’m using the stove.”

Jas nodded again, and Shane started to lift her within reach of the small, round circle. Elliott braced himself for the sound, but she paused with her arm outstretched. “Can you make sure there’s no skin on the milk? I don’t like it when there’s skin.”

“Of course, angel. No skin.” The sound of the metal spoon against the pot disappeared as the alarm shrieked to life. He grit his teeth, tried to keep his face expressionless until the last of the ringing faded.

“Okay?” asked Shane.

Jas made a small sound of assent.

“Marshmallow or whipped cream?” Elliott asked it as he stirred the hot cocoa mix into the saucepan. If he’d had more time he’d melt chocolate, add sugar, find the perfect balance between rich and sweet, but nights like these were more about intention than results.

“Whipped cream,” she said. She was settled into Shane’s lap at the kitchen table. Her eyes looked dry now, though her cheeks were still puffy and red. Her breathing had settled.

It’d take a while for Shane’s to do the same. That was alright, though. Elliott had nowhere to be.

Jas ate the whipped cream first, scooping it up with tiny dips of her spoon. Elliott sipped from his mug, noted the way Shane’s sat untouched. One of Shane’s hands lay flat on the table. In his haste he’d put on one of Elliott’s shirts. The unbuttoned cuff gaped as Shane’s thumb tapped an anxious rhythm.

The clock ticked its way between two and three.

“Thank you, Elliott.” Jas sounded sleepy now, melting into Shane with her cup half full. Shane caught it as it tipped, set it on the table.

“You are most welcome, Jas. I’ll send you some lovely dreams once you’re tucked in bed, alright?”

“Okay.” He could barely hear it, her voice all tired and small.

Shane carried her back to her room without a word.

Elliott stayed at the table, his mind wandering a little, until Shane sat back down with a groan.

“Wish you sent her some lovely dreams earlier.” He leaned back in his chair, the bags under his eyes looking deeper than usual in the fluorescent kitchen light.

“They can’t all be lovely, I suppose.” Elliott ran his fingers over the top of Shane’s hand, the veins and tendons as familiar these days as his own.

Shane sighed. “She’s going to sleep late tomorrow.”

“As will I, I assume. I’ll walk her to school.”

Shane nodded, fiddled with the mug with his free hand.

The clock ticked.

Elliott waited.

Shane looked at the table, the line of his shoulders rising. Then: “I wish I were better at calming her down.”

Elliott shook his head. “You do wonderfully. She knows she safe with you.”

“I don’t know that she does. Marnie’s so much better at this shit.”

“You each have your own way with her. She’s lucky to have so many people who care about her.”

Shane snorted. “She’s the unluckiest kid in the world.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “I keep waiting for things to get better with her, but I’m not sure it’s ever gonna.”

“It’s a large wound for such a small soul,” Elliott agreed, “but all wounds can heal. She’s lucky to have you as an example of that.”

Shane was quiet for a long, long time. In the end, he just flipped his hand against Elliott’s and squeezed.

“Come back to bed with me,” Elliott said.

“Nah. Won’t be able to fall back asleep anytime soon. Those fucking alarms make me feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin.”

“I’ll stay up too, then. Shall I reheat the cocoa?”

But Shane was waving him off. “Go sleep. You’ll get wrinkles or something if you don’t.”

“Oh?” Elliott raised his eyebrows, lifted his fingers to his cheek. “Are you saying you won’t love anymore me once I lose my youthful charm?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Too late for that. I’m saying you should go to sleep.”

“I will when you do.”

Another eye roll. “Need me to tuck you in?”

Sometimes, Elliott found, the best antidote for sarcasm was sincerity. “No, I just don’t like the thought of you sitting here alone.”

Shane pressed his lips together, tapped his fingers against the table again. “Fine,” he finally said. “But only because if you get wrinkles you’ll never stop complaining about it.”

“Oh, of that you can be sure.”

Bedtime. When things slowed. When things came together.

Like the dirty mugs in the sink.

Like Shane’s breathing within minutes of laying his head on Elliott’s chest.

Like Elliott’s thoughts, as he imagined the dreams he’d like Jas to have. Whipped cream and rabbits and clear, quiet ponds, he decided. He stroked his hand across Shane’s knuckles one last, tired time, and with a yawn he joined his family in falling asleep.

[munsonify]

Hiya! I hope you're having a wonderful day, I just wanted to say that the Bob SFW alphabet was so amazing! I loved how you captured all the layers to Bob, and how he's ultimately so tender and loving with reader. You mentioned a part about Sentry (or I guess Bob as Sentry) being protective of reader... would you be alright elaborating??

— hi, i hope you’re having a wonderful day too!! you’re so nice thank you so much, i was worried that it was super out of character for him. of course im alright with elaborating, i’ve been wanting to, thank you for asking!! i really hope this all makes sense and im not just brain vomiting on tumblr.com (when am i not)

———

before bob gets more of a control over sentry and void (something that��s directly connected to his bpd, a mental health issue he’s working on in therapy), i think he’s more prone to outbursts. i think this only happens in more serious situations though, ones that cant be dealt with relatively easily and shrugged off.

he doesn’t quite have the coping mechanisms he needs to regulate himself properly. bob tries not let himself get so overwhelmed by his emotions, though it does happen sometimes. deep down he knows he has the abilities to help you and protect you, a high he tried not to chase. one that he sometimes succumbs to.

bob wants nothing more for you to be safe, for you to be happy, alive. that’s one of the things that drives his emotions so intensely.

on the off chance sentry does take over during this time, he does become physical. if he finds out something happens to you during a mission gone sideways, he fights a usual losing battle with that switch in his head that tells him to go do something about it. his eyes turn a bright yellow, twitching and darting all over the place. sentry’s cocky, he knows he can win a fight.

he has no issue knocking someone into a wall for your sake, even if you claim you have it under control. why have you do it when he can do it for you? it’s not like he’s going to get hurt or anything anyways. it gives him such a power trip.

when bob has better coping mechanisms, has an easier time managing sentry and the void, sentry usually comes out as more of an intimidation tactic. while his highs and lows are still a little sporadic, bob has a much better time controlling them and harnessing them. sentry and the void are still superpowers/superhumans.

if someone’s being particularly obnoxious to you while the both of you are out in public, someone who isn’t taking no’s or warnings to knock it off, he lets his emotions bubble up a little. his eyes start to glow how they usually do when sentry makes an appearance. it’s as if this other side of hims poking and prodding at his brain, begging to be released for just a second. bobs posture straightens up, eyebrow cocking as he moves to stand behind you.

“don’t make this more of an issue than it already is.”

with being able to harness his abilities more, sentry tends to make an appearance more often during missions. he’s always looking over his shoulder at you, making sure you have things handled. he’s ready to swoop in the moment he thinks he needs to (he always thinks he needs to. not that he doesn’t think you’re capable, but because he likes having that power).

———

a/n. man idek if i like this. this could be so ooc

[msmk11]

I Made You a Pie

Peeta Mellark x fem!reader

WC: 849

CW: Mentions of food; you and Peeta had a fight; making up; reference to r's father believing in stupid gender stereotypes; fluff

Summary: The aftermath of you and Peeta's first fight.

Day 9 of mk's mad dash

You and Peeta fought.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

You and Peeta just had your first fight, and it was awful. 

Scratch that, it is awful. You suppose the fight hasn’t been resolved, seeing as you’d told Peeta you needed some air an hour ago. 

It’s not like you’re trying to run away from your problems. 

Okay, maybe you’re trying to run away from them a little. But you also actually needed some time to think. To cool off. Sure, you and Peeta had a fight. But that doesn’t mean you want to say anything mean or nasty just to hurt your boyfriend. You’re a mature adult who can handle conflict well, it’s just that sometimes, you need to step away for a moment to regulate your emotions.

Probably. 

The fresh air has done you some good. After taking a long walk through the woods, you feel calm, level headed, and reasonable. Still, your stomach is in knots as you climb the steps to Peeta’s home where you’d left him. 

When you open the door, you’re surprised- pleasantly surprised that is. The air smells sweet- sweeter than it usually does, at least. You’re not sure if it’s your heart or nose, probably both, that guide you towards the kitchen where you find your boyfriend hovered over the oven. At the sound of your footsteps, Peeta’s head snaps up, “Honey, you’re back. I thought you might’ve left for good,” he says with a nervous chuckle.

“Sorry, I lost track of time in the woods…was trying to clear my mind.”

“Did it?” Peeta asks, “Help clear your mind, I mean.”

“Yeah, definitely. I feel much better now.”

He smiles warmly at you and you almost forget why you fought in the first place. Nosily, you crane your neck to see what new concoction he has before him.

“What have you been up to?” You question nonchalantly.

Peeta looks down awkwardly and scratches his neck, “Oh, I, uh, made you a pie.”

You certainly melt this time, your resolve no match for your boyfriend’s tooth-rotting sweetness. You walk forward and pull him into an embrace, “thank you, sweetheart.”

“I made your favorite too,” he says, mumbling into your neck. 

You pull away and grab his face, placing a soft kiss to his nose. Then, more seriously you add, “Can you step away for a moment so that we can talk things through?”

“Yes, yeah, of course, love,” the blonde responds. He grips your hand tightly and pulls you to the kitchen table. Though you’re already sitting in the chairs right next to each other, Peeta grabs the back of your chair and pulls you closer to him, so that your knees are in between his own. 

You’re still overcoming your flusteredness at being so close to your boyfriend when he starts to apologize, “Honey, I’m so sorry I-”

You reach out and put your hand on his thigh, “Peeta, sweetheart. Wait. You’re not the one that needs to apologize first. It should be me. I’m the one that overreacted.”

“But-”

“Please,” you plead, “Just let me say this first.” 

He nods at you to continue.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you this morning when you were just trying to be helpful. Of course I appreciate your nice gestures, and I understand that you just want to do things for me because you like to spoil me. And I love that about you. But I guess sometimes it makes me feel like I’m incompetent. Like you don’t think I can do things around the house to help- even if it is your house. Growing up, I was told I was incapable or incompetent simply because I was a girl. My father didn’t believe I could do anything besides help out in the kitchen or with the laundry, and it always bothered me. I guess I’m just sensitive about that sort of thing. And I want to be viewed as an equal.”

Peeta squeezes your hand softly, “I’m sorry that happened to you so young. I know you, sweet girl, you are capable of whatever you put your mind to, and I never intended to make you think I think otherwise. I just, never want you to have to work a day in your life if you don’t want to. I only want the best for you, honey. But I can see how that can feel degrading, so I’m sorry.”

You reach out and peck your boyfriend’s lips gently, “Thank you, sweetheart. I do really love how well you take care of me. Just know, I’m not afraid to do the dirty work. I know this isn’t my place but-”

“It might as well be,” Peeta interrupts, “You may not live here yet, but I always think of this place as ours- the place we’ll someday live as a married couple, maybe with a few kids.”

The biggest, silly grin crosses your face, “I rather like the sound of that, my sweet boy.”

“Even sweeter with the pie I made you?”

You’re pretty sure the kiss you give him answers the question. 

[werewolfsmile]

Just watched The Big Bang Job again today and I rambled about this in an earlier post reblog but it deserves its own post..

The way Eliot dresses makes so much more sense after meeting Moreau and his goons. He rejects all notions of being anything like those well dressed men in their suits again. So blank and uniform, just another soldier in Moreau's private army.

That's why his shirt is always untucked, sleeves rolled up, collar unbuttoned. Not to mention the hair - the biggest rebellion is his hair. A constant reminder of who he is now that stays the same, no matter what he wears.

And it just makes me think how this is such a good representation of the identity crisis he went through (and let's be real, is still going through).

Eliot used to be one of those men. He had his hair short, wore the tailored suits and carried the guns. He didn't accessorise. He suppressed every aspect of an individual personality in order to fit the role that Moreau had for him.

Sure, we're not blatantly told all of those things in the show, but we can infer, simply from looking at Moreau's goons and how they're presented.

Seeing Eliot surrounded by those goons in the pool scene is more than just showing us the threat to Eliot and Hardison - and also the threat that Eliot and his reputation present. It's about showing us the demons of his past, the nightmare that he doesn't want to go back to. Eliot had alluded to his past before but it's been nebulous. Now, we finally see that past take shape and it's hideous.

But Eliot didn't stay like that. He got out - he got free - and he has been reclaiming pieces of himself ever since. Until, finally, he's the evolving Eliot that we know and love. He prefers to dress casual and relaxed, with strong reminders of his roots throughout. He keeps his hair long and loose - not military regulation, not 'professional' as far as male standards go, not even convenient for fighting. It's all a way of stealing himself back, and making sure the differences between who he was then and now are stark and vivid.

I could keep rambling but this is already twice as long as I intended. Just ... Eliot Spencer. He still doesn't view himself as a better man, never mind a redeemable man, but he is. When compared to those goons, his transformation is clear as day.

[marlynnofmany]

Squishy Cybernetics

“Hello!” I said. “Where would you like this?” I waved an arm at the large pallet of boxes, bags, and miscellaneous other packaging. It was on one of our biggest hoversleds, and accompanied by some of the biggest crewmates.

The Waterwill at the loading gate burbled thoughtfully, sounding like a water jug given sentience. She extended what passed for an arm of her own and pointed indoors. “You’d better bring it all the way in. Over here.” She glided inward, moving in that mysterious way I’d never figured out. Someone shaped like a column of jello had no business scooting forward that quickly, no matter how much their lower end rippled against the floor.

But I didn’t have time for galaxy-gazing; I had to help steer the hoversled. Regulations said we needed someone on all four sides for a load this big, just in case of antigrav mishaps. Didn’t want it slamming into something breakable at this client’s facility — or slamming into anything at all, really, but this place was some sort of high-tech manufacturing plant, and I didn’t want to think about what kind of damage a crash could do.

No mishaps today, though. The Frillian twins paced along on either side, all muscles and tight clothes (they’d left the flowy silks behind today; a solid choice). I couldn’t see Zhee in the back, but I heard the quiet click of his bug feet. My own feet were silent in proper Earth shoes as I tugged the steering handle and followed the Waterwill.

I thought we’d just take the thing to the far side of the big loading dock, unload it in an out-of-the-way spot to be unpacked later. But the Waterwill kept going. We passed hovercars and wheeled carts, storage cabinets and bins, along with a baffling arrangement of pipes along one wall. Windows showed glimpses of the busy manufacturing facility. I had no idea what they were making. Maybe I’d get a better look on the way back out.

Oh hey, a human, I thought in surprise as I passed a bigger window. With a Strongarm on his back? What in the world are they making together? I was already moving past, and could only speculate about intricate manufacturing projects that needed hands and tentacles at the same time.

I was still wondering why the Strongarm hadn’t just pulled up a chair next to the human when the Waterwill signalled me to stop. “Stopping,” I announced for Zhee’s benefit. We all came to a halt, and nobody crashed into anything. Hallelujah.

“Here, please,” the Waterwill said. She stretched her arm out into a long tendril to pick up a scrap of something blue that had fallen on the floor, and pointed at an empty space near several foam-topped tables. “I’m needed out front. Heeme, can you oversee?”

“Sure thing,” said a voice from nowhere, then a Strongarm climbed out from under one of the tables. “Found the last of the broken bits, by the way.” Two of his tentacles were curled around pieces of the same blue stuff the Waterwill had picked up. The blue stood out against the dark red of his skin, but not as much as the four mismatched tentacles on other side did. They were a transparent blue-green much like the Waterwill’s own tendrils. I tried not to stare, and failed.

“Thank you,” the Waterwill said. “I’ll be back in a bit.” She set her broken piece of whatever on the nearest table, then scooted through a door that was apparently soundproofed, because a cacophony of whirs and whooshes filled the air until it closed.

“Right,” I said. “Over here, then.” I steered the hoversled into position, then we all worked together to guide the detachable gravity platform onto the ground. That part always made me nervous, since it looked like the giant pallet that could crush me was floating through the air with just a touch of technological magic to make it go. I understand other models of industrial-sized hoversleds have more mechanical-looking gravity platforms, or regular forklift arms. Ours was the glowy magic kind, and it deposited the giant stack of objects with all the precision of the best fairytale enchantment.

“Perfect,” said the Strongarm. “We’ll unpack it from here. Thanks.”

“Our pleasure,” I said.

Zhee, finally able to see over the hoversled, got a good look at who I was talking to. “Oh, I’m sure you’re fast at unpacking,” he said, pointing with his pincher arm. “Does that model form into blades?”

“Sure does!” the Strongarm said, holding up a see-through tentacle that instantly flattened into a shape like a steak knife. “Good for packaging, stubborn latches, and all manner of other things.”

“And stabbing!” Blop put in, to be immediately shushed by his sister.

“No stabbing on the job,” she told him.

The Strongarm laughed. “Yeah, just respectable tool use. They don’t give these out to anyone who’s going to do violence with them.”

I asked, “Is that Waterwill tech? I haven’t seen one before.”

“Yup.” He turned the knife back into a tentacle, then into a variety of other shapes. “One of the perks of working here, for sure. They’re cagey about sharing tech. This is the best prosthesis I’ve ever encountered.”

I thought of the hard metal-and-plastic replacement limbs that were standard on Earth. They would be wildly out of place on this guy’s squishy octopus body. And no amount of interchangeable attachments would be able to beat this kind of easy shapeshifting. I said, “That looks really useful.”

“It is!”

The loud door opened to admit a wall of sound, along with the human-and-Strongarm pair. Which I realized with a start was actually just a human wearing more transparent tentacles on his back.

“Here’s the new set,” he said to the Strongarm, placing a clear box on the table that was full of a stack of more flat blue things. They appeared to be cut into very specific shapes. I might have been curious about what they were for if not for the much more interesting thing to be curious about.

“Hello,” I said. “Does everyone who works here get extra limbs?”

The tan human grinned. “If they want ‘em! And they pass the screening, of course. But you’ve got to leave them here each day if they’re the bonus kind, as opposed to replacements.”

The Strongarm wiggled his tentacles in a taunting manner. “I can open packages and slice food so easily at home.”

The human made a face and wiggled the tentacles on his back. “Yeah yeah, we’re all jealous. Someday I’ll convince the bosses that there’s an actual market for these, and I’ll be the first in line to buy my own.”

“They think there isn’t?” I asked in shock. “Those look so useful! I can’t list the number of times I’ve wished for more hands. Using teeth and feet only goes so far.”

Zhee made a disparaging hiss. “You have that many fingers, and still want more? Greedy.”

“I’m just saying that re-weaving a cargo net would go much faster if I could hold all of the fibers at once,” I told him, then turned to the Frillians. “Back me up. Two arms just isn’t enough sometimes, right?”

Blip and Blop looked at each other and shrugged. “I guess?” Blip said. “But that’s just when it’s time to get another person to help.”

Zhee clicked a pincher. “Exactly so. Or approach the problem differently.”

The human told me, “I’ve had this conversation more than once. Apparently not all species grow up imagining what it’s like to have bird wings or monkey tails or whatnot.”

“Surely other people want to fly,” I said. The expressions around me were dishearteningly blank. “Surely!”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” the human said. “See why I couldn’t convince the bosses?”

“But even on a practicality standpoint!” I exclaimed. “They have you using them here; why wouldn’t they think you’d want to use them at home?”

He shrugged, moving the tentacles in a graceful wave as he did. “Alien brains. I’ve given up trying to fully understand.”

The Strongarm spoke up. “If there are actually a large number of humans who would buy these, then it couldn’t hurt to put together a request from outside sources. The bosses don’t listen to random employees who are probably biased, but they might take an interest in actual buyers.”

I shook my head slowly. “Our courier ship isn’t going to be that kind of buyer, especially not at the scale they’d probably need.”

“What about big human ships?” Blip asked. “We could suggest it to the next one we meet.”

“Or human colonies,” Blop said. “Or large groups at space stations.”

Zhee said, “I heard Captain Sunlight talking about a delivery to Basal Station soon. There are plenty of humans there. You could suggest it to them, if you think this is really that widespread an interest.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” I said, thinking. There was indeed a significant human population on that space station, which might even include the crew I’d met from the droid jousting ship Hold My Beer. They were definitely the type to appreciate some extra arms. Both for working on finicky electronics and general slapfight shenanigans.

“Here, we should have something with the contact information,” said the Strongarm. “Jon, is there a notepad over there?”

“Yeah, got it.” The human leaned over a table and used his tentacles to lift a stack of books so he could pull out the small notepad at the bottom. That may have been showing off. “Here you go!” He handed it to me with his regular hand.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see if I can find the right ears to whisper into.”

“Best of luck!” he said. “My partner has asked me no less than half a dozen times if I could sneak my set home to play around with, but I’m not gonna risk the job.”

I laughed, hoping I wasn’t blushing. “Oh man, I wasn’t even going to mention the bedroom applications.”

Of course Zhee had to ask, tilting his head with faceted eyes shining. “The what?”

“Remember how most humans find tentacles a little creepy?” I asked him, pocketing the notepad.

“I recall. It makes this insistence all the stranger.”

“Well, some humans aren’t creeped out at all. Kind of the opposite. They like them a lot. In a, uh, private fashion.”

Jon the human spelled it out for him. “Mating rituals.”

Zhee’s antennae did a complicated dance, then settled in something that looked like disgust. “I was about to ask why, but I’ve decided I don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, best not to,” I agreed. “Anyway! Very useful extra arms. Good for a wide variety of activities. Other humans will likely be interested.”

“Very likely,” Jon agreed.

I activated the hovercart with a nod, and we said our goodbyes. The employees wished me luck. They returned to work while we headed back toward our ship.

Zhee grumbled disparaging things about my species the whole way, but that was nothing new.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come! And I am currently drafting a sequel!

PS: the story with the good ship Hold My Beer is here, if you're wondering about that. It's fun.

[redr0sewrites]

could i request head canons for spinner please? (fluff or smut I don't mind) tyyy <3

⚫️ A/n: YESSSS i cannot believe i haven't written for him yet- here r some ways i think he would show affection !!!

⚫️ Cw: none, just fluff! maybe mildly ooc since i haven't finished the final season yet

⚫️ dividers

despite his seemingly rough exterior, Spinner is very deeply empathetic and gentle towards those he cares about, and that is definitely evident within your relationship. he's always gifting you small, stolen trinkets that he thinks you'll like, always lending you clothes, and is very much prone to acts of service.

one of his main ways of showing affection is through quality time, or simply offering to hangout with you! he loves playing video games with you, and you guys definitely have a shared minecraft world and animal crossing village.

whether you're in the LOV or not, he absolutely wants you to meet them. they're his family, the people he feels most himself around, and cares deeply for them as well. if you're already a part of the leavue, that's even better! he loves hanging out with you and his family, its just so special to him and yet another way he shows how much he cares

GIFT!!! GIVER!!!! you cannot tell me Spinner would not give you his heart on a platter if you let him. along with this, i feel as though he'd really enjoy cooking for you or cooking with you, even if it does end up being disastrous. sure, he ends up making inedible concoctions half the time, but as he progresses he gets much better at cooking !!!

this is a bit more mellow, but i think Spinner struggles a lot with physical appearances and fitting in with societal expectations a lot. he's always a bit nervous that his looks may deter you, but that only means that he finds your acts of affection and praise more meaningful. he really likes it when you kiss his nose or hands, and the first time you do it he probably cries :( i also think he's a bit nervous to hold hands with you since he's worried that you'll dislike the texture or that he'll accidentally hurt you.. please reassure him !!!

yk how lizards can regulate their body temperature using their external environment? on cold nights he gets especially clingy, desperate for your warmth. much like the rest of the league, Spinner doesn't sleep very well, however he always sleeps best when he's at your side. he really likes skin to skin contact for that reason, not even sexually, but just because the feeling of your warmth against him calms him down

another way he'd show affection is simply by opening up to you. he doesn't do so very often, but when he does its incredibly heartfelt. he really likes psychological discussions, especially about topics such as Stains ideology and hero society. he's a lot smarter than he lets on and loves talking to you. i also think he's a writer as well, he loves writing as a form of expression and would write you love letters and little notes throughout the day, especially early on in the relationship when he isn't as good at expressing his feelings verbally

overall, Spinner seems tough, but he's pretty much a big sweetheart. he cares about you a lot, and tries to make an effort to show it as much as he possibly can.

OUGHHG HES SO SILLY ☹️ SPINNER MY BELOVED !!!! if anyone hs any more reqs, pls send em in !!! esp fluffy touya or tomura asks, i do not have enough for them 😞

[lay-z]

More horny. Impact play horny. Softer(?) Graves Impact Play horny. I’m going to a dungeon having fantasies.

Graves who runs the local dungeon and is the biggest impact play dom/top. Has his whole wall full of toys and tools in the dungeon and even his own locked chest. Some for new subs/bottoms looking to explore and test the waters. Some for the more experienced and comfortable who know exactly what they want with sometimes experiencing new things. Some for the very masochistic who want to be crying, shaking, and begging by the end. Toys that turn skin red, puffy, and wilted. Toys that can leave punctures, cuts, and deep bruises. Toys that can very easily cause a lot more harm in the wrong top’s hands. But in Philip’s hands? They are not just tools to cause pain but also pleasure.

He has you strapped to an x-cross, arms above and to the side, legs spread. While he is going to the wall of toys nearby. Dressed in a black chest harness, black jeans and his cowboy boots. He comes back this time in front of you. Pressing a dominating kiss to your lips, before pulling back slowly. “Ready Darlin’? Safe word is Rainbow, I’ll also check in on you throughout. Be good and tell me if you need me to stop.”

The dungeon has a few other staff lingering around but mainly it is empty. It’s before it opening and Philip being wanted to bring in his new girl so he could show her some of the ropes. And see how comfortable she would be in this setting. So having less people around is the better option.

He starts off slowly with you, gentle smacks with his hands maybe a paddle. Warming your skin up before he gets progressively harder and harder. Paddles, floggers, his belt, riding crop and his hands are all used on your soft flesh. Different tempos, different techniques, testing you, edging you, exploring you. The echoing sounds of flesh being hit with the mixture of sobs and whines.

During each toy singing his praises to you. “Took that hit like a perfect slut.” “Your ass looks so pretty like this.” “Darlin’ those sounds ya’ makin’ are goin’ to get you in more trouble.” “Fuck Sweetheart, doin’ such a good job for me.”

He always asks after each toy if you liked it. Knowing some prefer a more dull pain, a stinging pain, or sharp pain. To each answer you give he is making his list in his head to get more of that type of toy or to make sure that type of toy never hits your skin again. Which types of ways you like to be hit with each too.

It’s not until the dungeon has already opened up for the night and he is through almost every toy, that tears have started to flow, does he stop and come over to you. Gentle hands now, ghosting over your hot, throbbing, bruised, flesh. Whispering soft and sweet praises to you to try to get you to come back from your high.

“Did such a good job Darlin’.” As he gently kneads the flesh of your thigh. “Could’ve been rougher with ya’, took everything like a good girl.” Is muffled to you as he presses soft kisses behind your ear. Though his hands never leave your body still strapped to the cross. “Love you so much Darlin’…” It takes a good 10 minutes of this to get you back down to a more regulated and state.

And he is there throughout it all as he helps regulate you again. When you get back to a state where you are more coherent than a few sobs and whines, he uncuffs you and picks you up. Bringing you to a softer area and having you lay down on a massage table where he gently rubs soothing lotion on you. “Next time Darlin’ I’m thinking you could handle my whips.” It was the only toy he didn’t use on you. But he wanted that to be special after he knew your limits.

-🦄

Oh... oh my—

Holy shit, baby. I just played with myself but after reading this, I could go again 😭 I miss my Cuntry Daddy 🥺😞 How you described his outfit is just... UGHHHHH

I NEED HIM 😭 Also, I fucking love your writing!! 🩷

[witch-hazels-musings]

Hey Hazel, 🎱 Anon Here, again.

Wanted to make a second request, hope that's okay.

May I have a Ritual of Protection for Kazuma? Using Jasmine, Lepidolite, Frankincense, and Dalmatian Stone.

Jasmine (love, sensuality), Lepidolite (regulation, stress relief), Frakincense (confidence), Dalmation (loyalty, family) Kazuha x gn reader | Protection Ritual warning: alcohol and drunkenness, reader drinks, drunk Beidou and Kazuha

The laughter around the campfire called to you. How long had it been since you spent an evening resting, relaxing, and recharging? It seemed like there was no end to the constant movement of your life these days but sprinkled in like drying leaves, moments like these managed to find their way.

You slipped into the conversation and took up space next to friendly faces and jovial voices. It was easy. It was always easy with them.

"Waa, you should have seen em!" Beidou boomed, her drink spilling over the rim as she bumped her arm into a nearby shipmate. "Damn near took the whole crew on by themselves. Ain't that right," she added with a wink in your direction.

Ah, it was this story. How was she already this drunk?

"You always conflate this story, Beidou. It was like three people."

"Ho! Selling yourself short again. I don't think any of us could have walked out of that tussle without a few bangs and bruises. And you managed to drop em' all."

"Again, misremembering. I'm pretty sure the only reason I managed to get us out of these with all our faces intact was because I, kindly, explained to them it was more in their favor to leave."

"And then what happened," she said, smirking.

"They didn't listen so I showed them-"

"Aha!"

"BUT, they were way more plastered than you are, so it was hardly a fight. You love bringing this up." You chuckled and took a swig of your own liquor. It was sharp, heavy, and made your nose tickle.

If there was anything a pirate was good at, it was drinking - good, strong wine.

The group picked back up and you let Beidou fade back into her favorite stories. She went around the group as if to live through each of her crewmate's old tales with a fondness only she could bring. You didn't mind, no one really did. It was the opposite in fact. It seemed to boost the morale of the crew, each person getting their own spotlight. Though some enjoyed it most.

Something bumped into your back, jostled your drink. You reacted just in time to catch a stumbling Kazuha who looked more like a wet tunic than a person.

"What happened to you?"

He swallowed, caught his breath before beaming up at you. His cheeks were as rich as the kimono half-draped around his body. "As the sake warms, I am rich in its flavor. Bitter regret forms."

You burst into laughter. "You're so drunk!"

"I am," he agreed with a nod that twisted his face. You adjusted so you could prop his head up with your leg. He smiled and rubbed his face against it.

"How did this happen?"

He thought for a moment. "I remember being over there."

"Uhuh, and then what happened?"

"I am ... now I am here."

"Great. Good job," you teased. It was a rare sight to see Kazuha this intoxicated. Normally he could hold his liquor well, far better than you. Someone really must have worked hard to get him to this level. But you were happy for him. He needed to relax, let go for a time. And you'd be here to help him in the morning.

He grinned, wide and pleasing. You turned to the fire but Kazuha drew you back by sliding his arm over your lap. He adjusted so his head was on your thigh and his arms could wrap comfortably around you. And he stared. Stared up at you in a way that made your heart flutter.

"Firelight flickers. Dancing caresses on skin. I am jealous of its touch."

You counted in your head. "Wait, does that count as a haiku?" you asked.

"Perhaps not, yet the sentiment remains." Kazuha reached up to your face and let the back of his fingers caress your skin. "You're pretty."

Heat bloomed in your cheeks so you tried to hide them by cupping his palm to you. His skin was warm, hot, perfect. "You're pretty, too," you told him.

"Be mine?"

An endearing smile tugged at your lips. You leaned down toward him and he stretched to meet you. You could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"What if I told you I already was?" you asked as you held his chin.

"Then seal my lips so I may know it true."

You kissed him beside the crackling fire, surrounded by bonds tighter than family, and shared in each other's love to the backdrop of ruckus and revelry.

Thaumaturgy Anthology (October 11-13, 2024)

This event is based on spells and rituals. Inspiration does not equal understanding; liberties have been taken. All content is owned by Witch Hazels Musings, theft of these images and stories will result in immediate action.