#i think half the answer is “you stop masking” but there's definitely something else there

[nonbinarynightcrawler]

shakes my brain in an attempt to trigger whatever happens during a THC hangover that significantly lessens my anxiety and uno-reverses my executive dysfunction

[sorcerersseestars]

LIMERENCE (part I)

Gojo Satoru x gn!reader

"I can't stop loving you, no matter how hard I try."

summary: Your long-time friend stirs feelings inside you that you never realized existed. Of course they bubble up in your chest while he’s in the midst of ignoring you and discovering his own possible romance. Your mutual friend thinks she has it all figured out—or does she?

pairing: gojo satoru x gn! reader

fandom: jujutsu kaisen

genre: hanahaki sickness au, angst, hurt/comfort, drama, slow burn!

warnings: mentions of feeling sick, being stonewalled kinda, usage of the word (Y/N) bc Gojo is too fed up for nicknames (in reality idk what else to use 😶), Gojo being an ass (common theme in my fics oops)

word count: 3.6k

a/n: This is the first part to my hanahaki au! I’ve had this in my drafts for the longest time, but never committed to writing it all out until now. This first bit is kinda slow and maybe confusing BUT hopefully I’ll be able to clear it up next chapter. Not proof read very thoroughly; will probably regret later 🫥

part ii part iii

“DON’T YOU THINK you could be a bit nicer to me?” You try, clasping your hands together as you look up at him with an odd smile—a cross between apologetic and playful. You’re joking, or at least half joking. It’s too difficult to be serious with Gojo; his habit of masking emotion with jest must be rubbing off on you.

Only one corner of his mouth raises. “Good one, (Y/N)-chan. As if I didn’t use to pay your bills.”

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, and he walks away from you without a single glance. You frown and lightly jog a few steps to catch up to him.

“Ah, and I’m forever thankful for that!” You say, cringing at how overly peppy your tone is. “But that’s not exactly what I meant.”

“Hmm,” Is all he says. His hands are in his pockets, but he doesn’t carry himself with as much ease as usual—his posture is closed off, angular and tense.

“What I meant was–” You prompt your own answer, as he doesn’t make any move to. “We haven’t seen each other in a while. I know you’ve been really busy lately, so I don’t blame you, but I think we should go out and do something. Could help relieve some work stress too, don’t you think so?”

“Maybe,” He says, the word short yet effective in its delivery. The word was sharp in his mouth, clear annoyance shaping his tongue enough for the word to have a bite to it.

You wince. He never used to be like this. Gojo has been in a state of perpetual mirth—and one could argue levity—for the entirety of your friendship, never taking anything seriously and always looking for opportunities to poke fun at you to half-jokingly glorify himself. His expression has always been infectiously positive—never molded into anything hard or serious.

But, lately, everything you thought you knew about Gojo Satoru has faded away into your memories. He never seeks out your presence anymore, which is polar opposite from your high school days, when he would follow you around and pester you until you’d hang out with him. You actually used to get annoyed at this behavior, but you’re sorely missing it now.

You feel like you know nothing about him these days, only hearing tidbits here and there from your mutual friend Shoko. It stings to know that he obviously talks to her, and quite often at that, seeing she always has new details to spill every other day.

It doesn’t make sense to you: him and Shoko were never particularly close, definitely not nearly as close as you and Gojo were. In fact, she thought of him as particularly annoying in high school, and often swore to you that she would cut all contact with him once they graduated.

Back then, you had rolled your eyes at her antics, never believing that anybody could cut Gojo out of their life, seeing as he simply wouldn’t let them. But how else could you describe what he seems to be doing to you?

You bite your lip nervously. “Satoru? Is there something wrong?”

“Not particularly,” He says with a forced smile that’s screaming for you to shut up. You pretend like it’s not the most disingenuous smile you’ve ever seen smeared on his face.

“Are you sure?” You probe. “I mean…what’s been going on with you these days? We haven’t seen each other in forever, and you don’t seem yourself.”

“Are you sure?”

His lips are quirked up, as they perpetually are, but it’s different this time. It’s mocking. A mocking smirk that’s telling you to face reality. Do you really know him anymore?

You pause in your steps, studying his expression. You can’t see his eyes, but you wish you could. He’s hard to read with that blindfold concealing those powerful eyes of his, but it never used to be a problem. It hurts that you’re now struggling to gauge him when your emotions used to feel like one.

Evidently, you can’t answer his question. Not that he seems to care.

“I’ve really got to get going. Students to teach, curses to kill, all that,” He announces, tone low and apathetic. Bored. “See ya.”

Your breath flutters in your throat as you try to bid him goodbye. You choke on your words and only end up tentatively raising a hand. Before you can wave, his form disappears. A gust of wind greets you in lieu of a proper goodbye.

You stay where you are for a few shocked moments, not even registering the hot tears that leak from the eyes he avoided.

You wander aimlessly around campus for a while, the whole interaction replaying in your head several times over. His “Are you sure?” needles its way into your brain even when you push it away, the words hitting where it hurts every time.

Your feet find themselves taking you to an empty break room – ah, this is the one that has your favorite flavor of tea. You turn the kettle on, then eagerly dig through the tea stash. You file through the individual packets quickly and thoroughly, but to no avail. It’s gone.

With a sigh, you grab a random tea bag and throw it into your mug. Frustrated, you roughly begin pouring the now-boiled water into the mug, but it doesn’t seem that was a good idea. Your hand slips for just a split second, but a sizable splash of boiling water still manages to singe your non-dominant hand. A stream of expletives leaves your mouth, and you instantly cradle your hand to your heart.

More tears appear. At least you have an excuse this time—it fucking hurts.

You trudge to the clinic, feeling quite silly, but also seeking some much-needed relief. And you’re not exactly imagining painkillers or an ice pack—no, there’s something else. Someone else.

You hesitantly knock on the door. You feel stupid, but you really have to see her.

You crack a smile at the creak of the door. Your friend and co-worker Shoko strides out with an air of confidence you wish you held.

“What happened?” She asks calmly, eyes lazily taking in your form.

“Spilled some water from the kettle,” You say lamely. “It hurts.”

That doesn’t really constitute a visit to one of the only reverse-cursed technique users in the school, and you know it. So does she.

“Mmhm,” She raises her eyebrows. “Well, come on in.”

You shuffle in a little sheepishly, not able to meet Shoko’s eyes. Now that you’re here, you start to feel unsure about your own motive—do you really want to discuss this? Won’t it just be embarrassing more than anything else?

You stall a little in your steps as the negative thoughts invade your head. You’re startled to attention by a poke to your side—when you look up, Shoko’s playful smirk fills your vision.

“Come on over to the sink and we’ll put that under some cool running water,” She says, gesturing to your reddened arm.

You cock your head, looking between her and the sink skeptically, “No ice?”

She shakes her head, sticking her tongue out at you a bit, “Nope! Running water for burns.”

You hold up your hands in defeat, smiling, “Whatever Doctor Shoko says.”

“And I do,” She says cheekily. “So get under that water!”

“Aye-aye,” You say with a salute.

She groans, “Ugh. You guys are so annoyingly similar. Hang on a sec, I gotta grab something.”

She turns away before she can see the way your expression drops. The smile is stolen from your face, leaving behind saddened eyes and a slight frown. There’s only one possible person she could be talking about.

You sigh and turn on the faucet—your disheartened sigh morphs into one of great relief as the cold water soothes your burn.

“That better?” Shoko asks upon her return.

You nod, a small smile coming back, “Yeah, thanks Shoko.”

“Is there something else wrong?” She asks, then shakes her head. “No, scratch that. What’s actually wrong?”

You take a deep breath. How are you going to broach this subject? You wait several moments, pondering your exact next words.

“Do you think Gojo is okay?” You finally ask your long-time friend, words coming out almost cautiously.

She eyes you funnily, “Why are you asking me? As if he doesn’t chase you around the school to blab on about himself.”

You smile, but it’s tainted by bitterness.

“Shoko…Gojo hasn’t talked to me for two months,” You admit quietly. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

She stops.

“What?”

You hate hearing the confusion in her voice. You hate the pity that soon fills her eyes.

“He seriously hasn’t,” You affirm, sighing. “I don’t know what I did, or if I did anything, or…or what. I just, I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

You sigh. “Of course I have, but he didn’t seem to take my concerns seriously. Or consider them at all. It just seemed like he wanted me to shut up and leave him alone.”

Shoko looks at you curiously, lips quirking as if she has something to say, but no words come out. Is she holding something back?

You take a deep breath, willing the horrible emotion that squeezes your throat away. You look out the window to distract yourself, watching the branches of a sakura sapling swaying in the wind. It looks alone and lost, battered by the relentless wind.

“What’s he been like recently with you?” You finally ask, your gaze still on the tree.

“Normal,” Shoko says. “Annoying as ever. Noisy as ever.”

A cluster of pink petals is ripped from a branch, swirling hopelessly to the ground. When they settle on the ground, you look back to your friend.

“He’s really the same?” You ask weakly.

“Unfortunately,” She says wryly. “Besides, why do you care? We’ve both been trying to get him off our backs since waaay long ago. Sounds like a blessing in disguise.”

“Ah, that’s true,” You admit with a weak chuckle, trying to ignore the way your heart throbs painfully. “But he’s also our friend.”

“Since when? More like a thorn in my side. Maybe he finally got the message,” Shoko smirks. “You should give me instructions for that. I’d have a lot better quality of life, you know.”

You know she’s just joking around with you, but she’s truly just rubbing salt in your wound. Not very ethical for a doctor, even if unintentional.

“Yeah,” You laugh, but it’s an empty sound. “Well, I guess I’ll get going then. Hopefully your next patient gives you an easier time.”

Shoko jokes, “Yeah, this has been my toughest job all week. You fiend.”

Your head is filled with so many questions, all of them growing louder as you walk away from your friend. Your friend who you thought would sympathize with you, but only ended up making you feel worse in the end is acting suspicious. It’s not like you’ve ever wanted to actually cut ties with Gojo, even when he used to pull pranks on you in high school. You craved for a strong friendship with him throughout all his shenanigans.

Why is Shoko acting like you hate Gojo, and what isn’t she telling you?

Before you reach the door, you decide you need to know. You stop abruptly in your tracks.

“Ieiri, you’re not telling me something,” You say softly, not looking back. “Why?”

Shoko sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, “You don’t miss anything, do you?”

You say nothing. The door in front of you is tempting—it’s your way out of knowing the truth. Do you really want to know?

You wait tensely for a few seconds, the silence causing nerves to bubble up in your stomach. But when Shoko begins to speak, they go don’t go away.

“He hasn’t really been acting strange around me, but he’s constantly on his phone. Like always. Whenever he comes to chat, he immediately tunes me out and starts texting or loudly takes a call,” She snorts, huffing out an exasperated sigh. “I thought he was just bored and trying to make me feel disrespected as a sort of cruel joke, but I think it’s something else. I think…I think Gojo is interested in someone.”

Your head whips around, disbelief clear in your features. Interested in someone?

“Maybe that’s why he’s been acting weird. I always thought he was crazy for you, so it didn’t cross my mind until now.”

“Crazy for me?” You immediately echo back, voice hollow and confused.

Shoko shakes her head at you, “C’mon, you can’t be that oblivious. He always followed you around like a lost puppy in high school. He never said anything to me about it, but I really thought he would confess any day for years.”

“He did that to everyone…” You shake your head. “You say yourself he bugged you so much.”

She rolls her eyes. “Trust me, it was different.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. Your vision becomes foggy at the edges, reality fizzling out.

“Why didn’t you want to tell me?” You ask. “It’s not like that matters.”

You try to appear uncaring, yet it was a fight to get those words out.

“You’re a sensitive person. ‘Didn’t know how you’d react since Gojo always seemed to chase after your attention, exclusively. But it’s not like it was the other way around—should have known it wasn’t a big deal. It’s not. Guess he’s just growing up.”

“Yeah,” You agree faintly, voice devoid of emotion. Reality is slipping through your numb fingers, the information turning your world into a nightmare. You should have opened the door and ran when you had the chance.

“It’s not,” You say with a saccharine smile, one so sickly sweet that Shoko gets chills. That’s not your usual smile—not one that Shoko has ever seen you wear. “Of course it’s not.”

When you turn on your heel and rush out of her infirmary, Shoko reaches out a hand and her lips part to call after you. It’s uncharacteristic for her—the cold doctor is rarely sentimental or emotionally affected, but she saw something ghastly in that smile of yours.

The slam of the door answers her call. The truth, now imparted, comes to bite her in the ass.

It’s been a few days. You’ve been moping around the school, around your students—trying to cope with the information that you don’t even know is true. You see him across campus sometimes; he’s so easily spotted with his translucent hair and tall frame. Every time, he’s facing away from you, and your eyes fall on the back of his head. Your chest always tightens and you end up turning away, too.

You have ignored the feelings stirring in your chest, not willing to admit something that clearly isn’t reciprocated. It has been working, you suppose, since you haven’t cracked under the mental weight of possibly being in lo—

No, you can’t even think that.

Everything has been as okay as it can. It’s not until you attempt to visit Shoko again to try sort out your feelings, however, that things take a turn for the worse.

Your hand is raised as you prepare to knock on the infirmary door, but you hesitate once you hear muffled voices.

“I don’t know…I didn’t expect it at all.”

That’s Gojo’s voice. That low but self-assured tone is undeniably his.

“Expect what?” Shoko asks, sounding bored.

His reply is so soft that it passes by as just a hiss of air, so quiet that you physically startle at Shoko’s loud reaction.

“No! What? I can’t believe that!” She shouts, laughter quickly following her exclamation.

You shouldn’t be listening—you hadn’t planned to eavesdrop on your two best friends, but for some reason your ear seeks out the wall, as if magnetized.

The next three words uttered still your heart.

“Utahime kissed me,” Gojo admits quietly.

You feel like you can’t breathe. Utahime, who has always despised Gojo even beyond Shoko’s extent. Utahime, who once cried into your chest after Gojo was harsh with her at an exchange event. Utahime, who always persisted that you and Gojo were into each other during high school.

Shoko’s unbelieving chuckle cuts through your thoughts.

Shoko laughs, “Oh, yeah, okay, as if I’d ever believe that.”

There’s silence. Your heart drops at the lack of response—no teasing refute, no playful faux playboy attitude.

Shoko absorbs his unusual silence, finally interpreting his words for what they are.

She gasps loudly, spluttering, “Oh my God, you’re being serious. What?! There’s no way…”

Gojo’s voice is even and deep. “I didn’t lie. She just did it out of nowhere. I didn’t even know how to react, to be honest.”

“So you just stood there?” Shoko snorts, trying to keep up her usual sarcastic persona. “God, you’re insufferable all the way around.”

“I kissed her back,” He breathes out, voice almost weak.

Another long moment of silence ensues. You hold your breath, terrified that your panicked pants will alert them of your presence.

Shoko recovers quickly this time.

“Still insufferable,” She sighs, and you can imagine her shaking her head. “So what now? You like her or something? This is so random.”

“I…I don’t know,” He admits quietly. “I never thought she’d do that, it took me by surprise. I…I think I liked it?”

Your heart shatters. You clutch a hand to your mouth, gagging yourself, forcing back the pained gasp that’s threatening to leave your lips.

“Oh, is that so?” Shoko says drily, but the usual edge to her voice is absent. You can only imagine her expression: contorted with pity and pain, desperately trying to maintain her poker face.

“Yeah,” Gojo reaffirms. “It was nice.”

There’s silence for a few seconds as Shoko takes it all in. Then, “Is she who you’ve always been calling and texting when I’m talking to you? You’re an ass for that, by the way.”

Gojo exhales out a sardonic sniff, “You’re spot on.”

Why are you still listening? You should leave. You shouldn’t be hearing this. Pain blooms in your chest, as if thorns became lodged between your ribs.

“What about (Y/N)?”

You freeze, eyes bulging out of your head.

Gojo sighs, sounding annoyed, “What do you mean?”

“I’m not dumb, Satoru. There was something going on during high school and frankly in the past few years as well. Are you going to deny it?”

He scoffs, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Shoko. It was never like that.”

You feel like you’re going to be sick. You shouldn’t—there’s no possible way you’re actually in love with Gojo Satoru, is there?

Fuck. The thought you’ve been trying to avoid all this time has finally firmly inserted itself into your head.

You take off swiftly and immediately, and your footfalls are as light as you can possibly manage. If either of them knew you were here, you wouldn’t be able to handle the shame.

Gojo and Shoko are none the wiser to the immoral action that took place just beyond the door—so when Shoko is ready to clock out and opens the door, the presence of a school ID on the ground is nearly missed. She feels something strange crunch underneath her foot and steps away and glances at the foreign object.

You left in such a hurry that your ID flopped out of your pocket. It lays on the ground, your smiling face staring up at Shoko, who looks on in horror. She immediately knows that you heard everything. She quickly steps back onto your ID, concealing your identity with her foot.

With all the sight of his six eyes, Gojo somehow completely missed Shoko’s strategic maneuvers to erase traces of your presence. He whistles nonchalantly, not having a care in the world, apparently.

In contrast, Shoko’s mind is racing. Her eyes roam around the courtyard, searching for your form. She feels rooted to the spot—will she reveal you if she steps away? She almost forgets that she’s not alone.

“You looking for someone?” Gojo asks.

Shoko stiffens, but forces herself to relax and appear nonchalant. “Ah, I was just wondering if…if (Y/N) would still be around.”

Gojo frowns. “Hm. Not sure. Don’t they usually go home right after they get off?”

“Lately, they’ve been staying back to do paperwork,” She sighs. “Masamichi has really giving them too many missions…How come you don’t know that?”

“Haven’t had the chance to catch up, I guess,” Gojo says evasively, then quickly changes the subject. “Besides, aren’t you the same way? You coming or not? I’ve got better things to do.”

He waves his cell phone around playfully, a smirk widening across his features.

Shoko rolls her eyes, “Go ahead. I’m just going to wait here a bit and see if I can text them and get them over here.”

She hesitates for a second before adding, “Actually, why don’t you wait a sec? We haven’t all seen each other in a bit.”

Gojo immediately stiffens. He scratches the back of his head and says, “Ah, I’m actually sort of on a time crunch. Maybe next time.”

What a lie. Shoko thinks, eyes narrowing subconsciously. What is he up to?

As he trails off into the distance, the gears in Shoko’s head continue to turn. He always, always teleports home after work finishes. So why is he slowly walking around campus, head turning this way and that way as if searching?

And you! Why were you there? Why were you so affected? What is going on in your head—or rather, your heart?

Something strange is going on with her two friends and Shoko is determined to find out what.

next part

credit 🩷:

@kiyaedits - baby pink dividers, @sweetxmelody - cherry blossom divider

*note: taglist open!! comment to be tagged in part 2 :)

[earlgreylatte]

(Hal Jordan x Blue Lantern Reader) Where Hal is the one that grounds you after a big reveal and the Justice League is always in everyone’s business.

“Three life forms detected.”

Hearing the status from the ring, you and Hal exchanged glances, finding that the abandoned planet you two often visited in between missions wasn’t as vacant as you initially thought.

“Hello—!” Cupping your hands around your mouth you began to shout out, only for Hal to immediately envelop more than half your face with his stupidity big hand, as he pulls your back into his chest.

“What are you doing?” He hisses, looking around worriedly, as you try to shove him off you.

“No one is ever here but us, someone might have gotten stranded here,” you explain, trying to look up at him.

“That doesn’t mean you should go announcing yourself to a possible hostile!” Hal retorts, tightening his grip on you.

You’re sure Barry or Batman would have felt vindicated amusement in how your usually reckless, highball partner was forced to take up a certain level of caution when paired with you. While Hal Jordan was an optimist, even he had nothing against a wielder of the hope ring.

“So what? No one can stand a chance against a Blue Lantern and Green Lantern, you’ve said that way too many times to count,” you finally escape his grasp before turning around to face him, “Besides, if they need help, it’s my duty to provide it.”

The man before you sighs tiredly, shooting you a wry grin. “Maybe you should have been the Green Lantern with how stubborn you can be, berryblue.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?”

*

“Come on, there’s no one here! We’ve been here for hours—“

“Less than a hour.”

“Let’s head home, order some takeout, watch watch whatever tv show you’re obsessed with right now, maybe fool around a bit-“

“Hal.”

He groans, before splaying himself against you, relying on you to keep him upright.

“It’s been so long since we’ve been alone, don’t you want me to take care of you?” His hand travels lower, giving your bottom a generous squeeze, eliciting a strangled yelp and punch from you, which he only laughs at.

For a second, you think he somehow flustered you enough that your knees felt weak enough to buckle, but with how your head felt like it was being drilled from the inside, you conclude that this goes beyond Hal Jordan’s charm.

“Babe,” he starts, but stops when he sees you bring up a hand to massage your temple. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a headache. I’m fine, Hal,” You assure him, gently pushing him off.

You can already tell he’s furrowing his eyebrows beneath his mask before he brings his hands to grasp your arms, pulling you closer to inspect your face properly.

“Your ring should have negated anything like that. God knows how many migraines—“

“Hangovers.”

“—you’ve cured for me. Something’s going on.” He frowns.

“Just tired. We haven’t been home in months, it’s probably just taking a bit of a toll,” you reply, ignoring the way your vision becomes blurred.

“More the reason we should go, then.” He declares, his face hardening into the determined expression you’re more than familiar with.

“Not until we find whoever else is here.”

He groans out your name in exasperation.

You’re sure that he’s giving you a lecture about self-care, probably adding a salacious remark or two. But you’re unable to register him when the world around you begins to tilt.

*

He’s calling your name. Not ‘babe’ or some other embarrassingly gushy pet name . He’s definitely worried. So when your eyes flutter open, you’re not surprised to see the distress on his face as he cradles you to his chest.

“How long was I out?”

“You…only a couple minutes,” he answers, his grip on you tightening for a moment, “Come on, we’re going home.”

Scowling, you squirm in arms, but his hold remains steadfast, much to your fond irritation. “It was just a dizzy spell—“

“That was not—!”

“I’m fine. Besides, we still haven’t found whoever else is here!”

“They could be the Pope, and I still wouldn’t give a shit!” He bites back, his hand flexing on the meat of your thigh, mindful enough to not strengthen his grip on any further.

You furrow your brows, I mean, yeah, you’re literally Jewish.

“Give me a boost, will you? I’ll have us back in the watchtower before it’s Spooky’s feeding time.”

When you remain still, he jostles you lightly, but you avoid meeting his gaze.

He growls out your name impatiently, before softening.

“I’ll have Guy or Kyle do a scope here as soon as we get you checked out,” he promises.

“It’s probably nothing,” you grumble, before acquiescing, focusing on his ring and augmenting its output, “Gently, Hal.”

“Only because you asked so sweetly.”

*

Powered down and tucked into a med bay bed, you toyed with the ring on your finger as Hal finished off the leftovers of the meal J’ohn brought you.

“Sure you don’t want me to get you anything else?” Hal asks leaning forward on his chair.

“I’m fine,” you reply absentmindedly. You’re sure he’s looking at you with that dumb, loving expression he gets around you, when his brown eyes soften enough to resemble melted chocolate, so you avoid looking at him lest you break.

He places his hand over yours, giving it a light squeeze, “You were just overworked, don’t worry, Nurse Jordan will you have up and running in no time.”

“Liar. You were the one saying something has to be really wrong for my ring to not cancel everything out,” you scoff, trying to fight back a smile when he winces guiltily. “Well, your bedside manner isn’t too bad, though.”

With a soft grin he climbs onto your bed, nestling one of his arms behind you so it’s wrapped around your shoulders, moving around until you’re settled against his chest, as he uses his free hand to lock fingers with yours.

“You’ll be just fine,” he quietly assures, thumb rubbing against your hand soothingly, “After all, there isn’t anything we can’t figure out together.”

“Because of our rings?” You mumble as best you can with your cheek smushed against him.

“Because I’d literally tear reality apart for you and you’re my stubborn, intelligent, gorgeous girl that’s going to outlast everyone.” he responds casually. You really can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “But yeah, the whole ‘strongest weapons in the universe’ thing too.”

You let out a breathy laugh, nuzzling against him, only straightening up when J’ohn returns, expression as enigmatic as ever.

“One of the functions of the hope ring is to keep its wielder in peak condition, especially since its speciality is regeneration, correct?” He asks.

“Always wakes up without an ache or creak in her back, her ring surpasses mine in that regard,” Hal comments, squeezing your hand.

“Yes, I think its effect on your physiology is more proactive than anyone could have anticipated.”

“Just spit it out,” you sigh, wanting to rip the bandaid off.

The Martian clears his throat, suddenly look awkward, “There really was no way for you to realize, with the ring working to negate any symptoms and attempting to keep your body in optimal condition, that you are…with child. Second trimester, I would guess.”

You’re very sure that you’re brain just blue screened for a second, jolting back into reality when a tension you didn’t notice in your partner immediately faded, “Oh thank god.”

You look at him incredulously as he grins sheepishly.

“Sorry, sorry, but I was really worried it was something terminal or some galactic virus!”

“Weren’t you telling me not to worry earlier?”

“Yeah, you’re a Blue Lantern, worrying is my job between the two of us.”

J’ohn clears his throat again, pausing your debate, “We can have our on-staff medical team oversee your…condition, or we can refer you to trusted OB-GYN on Earth. While rare, a ‘cryptid pregnancy’ is still completely safe. It’s just good we were able to catch it so early.”

“Yeah, imagine if you randomly went into labour in the middle of space,” Hal states, visibly shuddering at the thought.

You groan, burying your face in your hands.

“I’ll leave you two to discuss this privately,” The Martian excuses himself.

You feel two large hands wrap around your waist, and in an instant Hal has manhandled you in his lap, his back hitting the pillows you were just propped up on. He buries his face into your neck, humming contentedly.

“What are you thinking?”

“What are you thinking? You’re awfully calm when this is probably the last thing you’d want, flyboy.” You retort with a bit more venom than you wanted, but he only nuzzles his nose near your pulse point.

“I’ll admit that when I got this ring, I figured I wouldn’t do the whole family man thing. I mean there was a point where my feet wouldn’t even touch the ground, between sector shit and the airfield,” Hal starts, “but being with you, I realized that I wouldn’t have to ever tie myself down because it would never feel that way with you. Not that I would mind you tying me up.”

Despite your best efforts you laugh, and you feel him smile against your skin.

“Whether we’re on Earth or on the other side of the sector, I’d be happy as long as you’re the one holding my reigns. Lantern or not, I know we’ll be okay. So being married to you and raising a kid…what’s not to want?” You remain silent for a moment before relaxing against him.

“I won’t say I’ve never thought about this before and the ring is definitely going to make the process unfairly easy,” you begin quietly.

“Oh, yeah, bet there are a lot of ladies that just hate your guts for that alone.”

“So, I—,” you pause for a moment, Hal patiently waiting, “I want to do this. With you. I mean, I’m scared but overcoming fear is kind of our thing.”

Hal’s hand comes up to tilt your head back to press his lips against yours. The angle is a bit awkward, but Hal leaves you breathless nonetheless, and even now, he’s smiling.

You pull away with a shriek, when his other hand reaches up to grope your breast. “No, just like I thought, it’s definitely bigger. More sensitive too.”

“You’re the worst,” you complain without any real heat.

“Hey, just checking!” Hal grins deviously, giving you another squeeze before you’re interrupted by the sound of a certain bat clearing his throat. You would have jumped out of Hal’s arms if not for his grip on you, clearly unashamed of cuddling you even in Bruce’s presence.

“Hey, Spooky, here to congratulate us?” Hal asks and you resist the urge to elbow him for being so obvious, but the other man only hums in affirmation and you realize you should have known nothing goes unknown to the bat.

“And to assist in anyway you two would need.” He approaches you and hands you a pile of—

“Brochures?” Hal observes. “‘How to handle your super bundle’, ‘How to go from Superhero to Super Parent’—who the hell made these?”

“Not like we’re having a super baby that could try to claw out of me ‘Alien’ style,” you note.

“While you two are both normal humans, that doesn’t mean you won’t have our support in having a new responsibility added to your already busy lives,” Batman affirms, “We will also set up a college fund when your child is born and cover medical expenses and the like. And—“

“Wait, too much info,” you massage your temple, “Since when did we have all these resources? Oh, Clark wasn’t kidding when he said you paid his rent!”

Bruce only smirks in response. Rich people.

“Alright, alright, we get it, maybe don’t try to send the love of my life into an existential crisis?” Hal interjects. Softie.

“We can talk more later. Some of the parents in our community have monthly meetings. I’m sure Barry will be sending you invites and reminders as soon as he finds out,” Bruce says, looking vaguely amused.

“Hold on, how many people know? How did you even find out? Did J’ohn tell you?” You question, furrowing your brows.

“As soon as you two arrived, Clark heard a third heartbeat, and we all know he can’t contain himself on these matters.” Bruce explains already heading for the door, deeming the conversation done. You have no doubt he’ll be popping around Coast City in the coming months though.

“He’s such a gossip, or more like everyone here is,” you complain, “Better tell Barry and Ollie while you can. They’ll be mad if they find out from the grapevine.”

“Guess we got a lot to do when we get back home,” Hal muses with a stupid grin, probably already planning out a green, space themed nursery.

You hum, leaning back into his hold before jolting. “Third life force!”

“Huh?”

“The—ring—third life force! It knew!” You sputter out, glaring at your finger accusingly.

Hal stares at you for a moment before bursting out in laughter as his shoulders shook, once again burying his face into your neck, which did very little to muffle him.

“Hal!”

Low key my worst fear, but it’s Hal and I think he should acquire a child if dc isn’t going to write him being a big bro to air wave. Also I want his dick LMAO

[pepsiboyy]

HEARTSTRINGS. - p2

p1 ⚜ masterlist ⚜ p3

pairing: chris sturniolo x fem!reader summary: after moving to massachusetts from florida, y/n lives with her half brother, nathan doe, who is part of a small garage band. their sassy guitarist, chris sturniolo, can't help but get on her nerves. but there's something about him. warnings: use of y/n lol, cursing, use of nickname (ma literally once as a joke) a/n: HIIII short update but keeping u guys fed love u always <33

wednesday.

i hummed to myself and smiled as i made my way down the stairs. today was going to be a good day. i decided i should wake up each day with a positive outlook, because if i don't, then days won't be as bright, and-

"mornin, y/n."

my movements stopped as i looked over to the couch in the living room, occupied by nate, and chris.

my eyes met chris' as i stared at him and blinked a few times.

nate turned his head from the game they were playing on the tv and smiled warmly at me. "oh, hey."

i collected myself in my comfy robe and tried to mask my look of disgust, but it was hard. "what's he doing here?"

"no need for hostility, ma, just spending time with my best friend." chris motioned to nate, who smacked the everliving shit out of his arm.

"dude, don't call my sister that, it's weird."

i stared at the two, my cheeks a soft tint of pink as i shook my head. "right. so that means i have to-"

"get used to seein me, yup."

everyone's heads turned to the front door as it opened, and my dad walked in.

"hey guys. oh, hey chris." he said enthusiastically.

i watched in disbelief as they just allowed chris there. like he lived there.

i scoffed before grabbing a banana and making my way back to my room. there goes my positive outlook on today.

my dad was beginning to go to sleep, and nate was in his room. i had been in my room most of the day, not exactly wanting to run into chris, or my brother who would definitely give me a talk about chris. it just didn't interest me, i didn't want to see him.

maybe it was the bad first impression. i don't think there's actually much wrong with chris. maybe he's good at guitar. maybe he's good at whatever game him and nate were playing downstairs this morning.

i quickly shook my head as i slipped out of bed and made my way out of my room. i needed a drink. or something to eat. or fresh air. something to get my mind off of chris.

upon leaving my room, i was met with a larger figure passing by the front of my room. my eyes followed him and i noticed he was approaching nate's room. but he was taller than nate.

"oh, you're still up?"

i swear.

"you're still here?" i fired back, and chris threw his hands up in defense.

"what's your problem with me? did i do something to upset you?"

i stared at him, a look of annoyance on my face. not really, i wanted to say. your face is so punchable, i wanted to say. your hair is so cool, i wanted to say. i just can't stop thinking about you, i wanted to say.

"whatever." i mumbled as i passed him and entered the kitchen.

"come on, y/n. you can't hate me that much." chris whisper-yelled in response, attempting not to be loud as everyone else was beginning to fall asleep. "and to answer your question, i'm here because nate invited me to stay tonight and write lyrics. he was tired though, so he went to bed."

"mmhm." i responded blandly, opening the refrigerator, which lit up my face in the darkness of the kitchen.

"nate told me you sing a bit?"

i turned to chris and narrowed my eyes. "i dabble. but you'd catch me dead before catching me singing for your band." i mumbled, pointing my pointer finger at chris with one hand and a tub of orange juice in my other hand.

chris clutched his chest as he stared at me, a clear look of hurt on his face. "harsh much. no need for the sass, i deal with it enough at home."

i shut the refrigerator and looked at him as i got two cups out, setting them on the counter. "at home?"

"yeah," chris started, as he watched me pour the orange juice into the two cups, "i have two brothers. i'm a triplet actually."

"eugh, there's more of you?"

chris stared at me, dumbfounded. "they're nothing like me, believe it or not." he mumbled, but something about his tone made me realize he was serious, but almost in a way that was sentimental to him. i could tell he looks up to his brothers.

"you three close?" i questioned as i put away the orange juice and began sipping at my cup.

"absolutely. never really done much without them." he smiled softly at the thought of his two brothers. "their names are matt and nick."

i nodded as i listened to him. "i see. before nate, i didn't really have siblings. i just lived with my mom in florida." i chuckled, setting my cup down gently.

chris nodded. "see, i just can't even begin to imagine a life without siblings." he gently picked up the cup i poured for him, and motioned it up as a soft 'cheers' and smiled. "thank you, by the way," he mumbled before he took a sip out of the cup.

i smiled warmly and nodded. "and i can hardly imagine a life with siblings. but nate is so kind, i look forward to getting closer to him."

chris nodded as he leaned against the counter and stared out the kitchen window, humming to himself in response. "nathan is my best friend. truly. i can go to him about anything." he turned to me and smiled. "i think you'll love having him around. he's a reliable friend, i can't imagine how he would be as a brother. he didn't even let me call you a harmless nickname earlier."

"harmless is kind of.." i trailed off and smiled softly at chris. we looked at each other before i sat up and hummed. "anyways. i'm going to go back to my room. you have fun writing lyrics?" i smiled at chris.

chris nodded as he looked at me, finishing his cup and sitting up. "yeah. i'll be in nate's room." he smiled. "i'll come to you if i get lonely?"

"in your dreams." i quickly responded, sitting up as i made my way to the stairs. chris followed behind me and chuckled softly.

"too late for that, y/n."

p1 ⚜ masterlist ⚜ p3

comment to be added to taglist!! taglist;; @sturnioloshacker @nickgetsmewetter @matthewsturniolosgirlfriend101 @chrissgirlsstuff @nsjsnshey @sturniolosarethebest

[meixstar]

heyy, i saw that your requests are open and i was wondering if i could please request fluff with sukuna, comforting the reader when they have a bad mental health day if its okay, thank you🩵

❥ Synopsis In the end everything will be fine, if just for a moment.

❥ Pairing Sukuna x Reader

❥ Content gn!reader, mentions of mental health, some swearing, fluff, slight angst to comfort, Sukuna being Sukuna

❥ Word Count 905

❥ A/N Thank you for your request, Anon! :) I should have done more research about mental health but I still hope this comforts whoever needs it right now. I'm also still learning how to exactly write characters and their personalities so please be patient with me, and give me some tips if you like c: Take care of yourself and enjoy!

♡ Finding Comfort in the Storm ♡

It was clear that today hadn't been the best day - not after oversleeping, missing an important deadline, and then once again getting yelled at by your boss.

Why did these things always have to happen to you?

Sukuna could tell that you weren't feeling well. Or at least he knew that something must be bothering you by the look on your face. Was he annoyed that you won't tell him? Definitely.

"Oi, what is it with you today?" He speaks in his deep voice as he watches you flop down on the couch beside him, face buried in the soft material. You just shake your head, not daring to meet his eyes while your own fill with tears.

Today had been really stressful, and now you just want to let go and let everything out.

"Don't play dumb with me, I know you're upset over something," he says gruffly, pulling on your arm to make you sit up. His fingers wrap around your wrist like a vice as he examines your face, trying to figure out what's going on behind those tears.

"I'm not," you answer in a weak attempt to stop him from further investigating. "Today's just been.. shitty." Sukuna raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your half-hearted response. "Save it, brat. You think I don't know when someone is lying to me? What's going on? Did someone bother you?"

The grip on your wrist tightens ever so slightly as he leans closer, his breath hitting your forehead. Finally, the tears are being spilled as they run down your cheeks. You desperately try to dry them with the sleeve of your sweater but to no avail.

He lets out a low growl under his breath, his expression darkening as he watches you cry, his gaze piercing through the tears, almost as if searching for the root of your distress. "Tell me." his demand is soft-spoken yet laced with an underlying intensity that brooks no refusal.

"I-I'm tired," quiet sobs leave your lips as you lower your head to flee his piercing gaze. "All week I've been just so tired. I can barely get out of bed, shower or find the motivation to eat. Work has been stressing me out as well. I just.. want to sleep."

His grip on your wrist eases, his touch gentling as he reaches out with his free hand to brush away the strands of hair clinging to your damp cheek. "And you thought you could handle it all on your own, huh?" a hint of amusement creeps into his voice, accompanied by a raised eyebrow, though his eyes remain fixed on yours, probing deeper.

You shrug weakly in a feeble attempt to respond to him. "I have to," you answer in a hoarse voice from your crying session. "But at the same time, I feel like I can't even take care of myself sometimes. I hate that feeling.."

A fleeting glimmer of curiosity flickers across Sukuna's face before he masks it with a neutral expression, his gaze never wavering from yours "So, you'd rather exhaust yourself than admit weakness and ask for help?" his words are laced with a subtle, probing quality, as if he's digging deeper into the recesses of your mind.

You let out a quiet sniff and wipe your nose with your sleeve. "What?" With a slow raise of your head, you come once again face-to-face with him. His expression is cold, yet there lies something else.. perhaps tenderness? Care? Who knows.

Sukunas eyes seem to bore into you, "You're still not getting it, are you?" he whispers ever so slightly. His breath dances across your skin, sending shivers down your spine as he inches closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "You don't have to be strong all the time." that was.. unusual for him. Him? The King of Curses saying you should let your guard down?

Once again, your lips begin to tremble. But it's still so hard to do just that - being not strong when everyone, including yourself to be just that at any given moment. "Let go, just for tonight. Let someone else carry the weight of your heavy burden for once." his words are laced with a promise, a silent vow to be that someone who'll hold you together when everything seems to be falling apart.

"I'm tired.." a weak whisper into his ear as you slowly begin to calm down. Sukuna's lets go of your wrist, and he wraps his arms around you instead, pulling you close as he settles back into the couch, cradling you against his chest. "Then sleep. I've got you." his words are low, reassuring, and for once, devoid of any arrogance or condescension.

"Since when are you so good at comforting?" you let out a big yawn as the tiredness you so desperately tried to avoid comes seeping through.

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrates through his chest, making you feel the vibrations against your ear. "I'm not. I'm just good at manipulating people to get what I want." he murmurs, his hand stroking your hair in gentle, soothing motions. "And right now, I want you to relax."

A small smile forms on your face before you drift off into a peaceful slumber. Sukuna's gaze lingers on your serene face, his expression softer than usual, before he looks away. His eyes drift towards the window, where the first hints of darkness are creeping in.

♡ fanart from @xshuh90 on pinterest ♡

♡ divider by @benkeibear ♡

[plzu]

Just Water, Thanks - (Adrian Chase x Reader)

part four☕️

a/n: tbh if my 13 y/o self saw me updating a multi-chapter fic [redacted] months after the last update, she'd be impressed. this is shorter than i wanted it to be bc i had to cut it off. consider this an in-between chapter as we navigate (negative) emotions and such. anyway, hope y'all don't mind as i steer this story into angst territory! Summary: Adrian takes care of you while you are drunk and miserable in his home. Warnings: 18+, no Y/N, ANGST (reader is going thru it), mentions of assault, mentions of gore and blood and nightmares, a reference to one of the Saw movies (idk which, sorry), not beta read, if i missed anything lmk pls!! Word Count: 3.3k+

Revelations are dizzying. Revelations taste like vomit in the back of your mouth, and the backs of your teeth. Revelations leave you sore all over, more sore than you think you’ve ever been. Revelations are exhausting. They leave you parched as shit.

Or maybe that’s just the alcohol.

The night wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

It was supposed to be some girls from high school. Old friends. Best friends. The people that were your anchor in Evergreen, who made everything bearable. Late night talks and laughing over the dumbest things and whisperings about crushes and aspirations.

People you slowly stopped talking to once you moved across the country, to some city that could swallow you whole.

People that decided to return the favor. Two last minute ditches, and one that completely ghosted you. They’re just busy, you thought, a dirty martini and a half in. They have real jobs, and spouses, and… kids? Maybe?

Pouty and miserable at the sleek bar, drowning your insecurities in alcohol, picking at the olives at the bottom of empty glasses. They’re too- too good for me, anyway. 

Having found some semblance of happiness in an unlikely friendship with Adrian Chase, you thought you’d finally venture out, expand your social circle again. Feel like you have everything together, finally.

Learn to experience snatches of happiness elsewhere, outside of time spent with Adrian. Because, face it: there is something that feels slippery about him. Evanescent. Like one day he’s going to disappear, or get bored of you.

Or reveal whatever secrets he’s been clearly harboring, something neither of you could return from, and the wedge that it would drive between you would leave you right back to where you started: a ghost that didn’t even have the good grace to properly die. 

You walk -- stagger, really -- down the empty street, most of your weight supported by the masked Vigilante. Adrian is supposedly under that mask. You cannot wrap your head around this fact, even after watching Vigilante answer Adrian’s phone, and say some bullshit excuse only Adrian could come up with. 

“Alright, here we are!” Vigilante (Adrian?) declares. “The Vigilante-mobile.”

You both come to a stop. You squint bleary-eyed at the 4-door sedan, glance at the masked face beside you, then back to the car. 

“It’s just your regular car.”

Vigilante -- no, Adrian, definitely Adrian -- snorts. “Well, yeah. I can’t exactly afford a second car with a busboy salary.”

This almost makes you laugh, because Adrian is good at that, really. Effortless. But nausea stirs in your gut, so you decide against it. Grumble a wordless response instead. 

Adrian attempts to ease you into the passenger seat, asking if you’re hurt anywhere else. If they hurt you in any worse ways other than the obvious. You can only shake your head noncommittally, fighting back the urge to vomit again. There will definitely be bruises and sore spots on your aching body from the rough way they had handled you, but you know what he’s really asking.

Head slumped back against the headrest, you close your eyes for a few minutes. You have to buckle up, Adrian urges, but you cannot find the strength or the energy to pull the seat belt around your body. A pathetic little huff is all you can really muster before Adrian, patient and gentle, pulls the seat belt around your torso and fastens you in place. 

Unfortunately, the gentle action is buffeted by the coppery scent that washes over you, the roughness of his gloves and suit briefly scraping your skin; this doesn’t smell like Adrian. Not like the familiar Irish Spring soap, or coffee and caramel after visiting you at the cafe. This makes you whine. Whimper, really, dissatisfied and uncomfortable and very momentarily scared. 

Misunderstanding, he tells you you’re going to be okay, in a voice that’s a touch too animated for the general mood of the night.

When the door is shut, you try not to suffocate in the brief silence that follows. Keep your eyes closed as the muffled thud of the trunk jolts the car a bit, willing the queasiness away. Desperately wishing for water, or sleep, or death. 

You do not open your eyes when Adrian finally gets in the car, and starts driving, until he mentions something about taking you home. At that point, your eyes fly open.

“No,” you beg. “No, Adrian, please. I can’t go home like this. I don’t want them to see me like this.”

There’s a quiver in your voice. Nervousness builds in your chest, a rapid flutter in your ribs that makes you feel like crying. Adrian stares, eyes flicking from your face to the quickening rise and fall of your chest, and you realize it’s just Adrian sitting next to you, now. Wearing normal clothes. No blood-splattered suit or eerie red visor. Just the familiar--if slightly disheveled--curly hair and glasses, lips parted in confusion or concern. Seeing his bare face is almost a comfort, especially when he nods, and faces the road again. 

The trip to Adrian’s apartment becomes a hazy memory. He walks you through the corridors of some small apartment complex until you’re trudging through the threshold of his home, where he guides you through the dark into his bedroom. You sag into the edge of his bed once he turns on the light. 

“Gotta get you cleaned up, but… do you need water?” Adrian asks. You only stare back up at him before he goes, “right, yeah, no, you definitely need water. Wait right here.”

When he comes back, Adrian is juggling a couple of bottles of water and a first-aid kit to dress your wound. He sets everything down, handing you a chilled water bottle which you gratefully accept. You cannot unscrew the cap of the bottle fast enough to immediately quench the discomfort of your sandpaper tongue. 

“Slow sips,” Adrian says, after some reckless guzzling causes you to choke and dribble water all over your chin. 

Setting the bottle aside, you notice stands with his back to you on the other side of the room. You realize this is him giving you privacy so you can begin the struggle of taking off the stockings. They get halfway down your thighs, dress rucked up around your hips, before the effort of it unlocks a well of tears; a flash of a memory of being six years old and left to fend for yourself for the first time in a fight to tug on tights for school.

It’s not that you’re so inebriated that you can’t take off your stockings, though it certainly doesn’t help. It’s that once you get the fabric rolled down to your skinned knee, a new wave of nausea overcomes you. You can feel the mesh of the tear sticking to the gooey wet parts of the wound, and your mind reels with the dizzying thought that if you tug anymore, you’re going to make it worse. Take more skin off. Bleed all over Adrian’s bedsheets. Throw up again, probably.

It’s just for a brief second, you don’t let the feeling last too long, but-- the quick snatch and tug of the nylon on the tattered skin of your knee reminds you of one of the Saw movies, and how one of the traps involved gluing some poor fuck’s bare back to the driver’s seat of a car. And the way he had to peel off the seat, screaming and sweating, struggling to reach the -- the brakes? The gas? -- just to try to save some girl’s life. The stretch of skin, the vivid gleam of blood, your memory no doubt enhancing the gore of the scene in a new wave of despair.

When Adrian turns around, he finds you with your face hidden in the cusp of your palms, stockings only rolled down to the tops of your knees. Your dress is still bunched up around your hips, and maybe you should feel exposed, sitting on Adrian’s bed with your thighs bared. Embarrassed, even. But between the ick in your stomach and the sour taste at the back of your throat and the headache that begins to pulse behind your eyes like remnants of the bassline from the club, you don’t have any room to care. 

(And, admittedly. You don’t think you’d mind Adrian seeing this much of you. Under different circumstances, at least.)

You sense him hovering closer, probably paused at the sight of you all pathetic on his bed. Or the bare flesh of your thighs, more likely. Something unintelligible is mumbled into your hands in an attempt to draw his attention. Let him know you’re aware of his presence, and that you’re lucid, at the very least.

“Sorry- what?”

You sniffle, before mustering up the strength to raise your head up. But only enough to stare at his feet. “I can’t- My tights. I can’t… take them off.”

You watch as his scuffed up shoes approach you. Absently, you think about how Adrian hasn’t worn these before, even though it’s gotten cold. And, oh, they’re probably just part of his Vigilante costume. 

Ah. Vigilante. Adrian. 

“Whoa… what do you mean?” Adrian crouches down, his bespectacled gaze in your sight, and you realize the quick, short breaths you hear are your own. “Are you going to cry again? I have tissues here on my nightstand- for, like, normal reasons. Nothing gross. Ignore the lotion.”

There’s a very small part of you that knows this would have -- should have -- made you laugh. It’s the part of you that feels detached from this whole experience, as if watching from outside of your body. Like a muted, sober-ish ghost that can’t do anything but observe. Helpless. Unable to keep you safe.

You can’t even take off your fucking tights by yourself.

“The- the cut on my knee,” you attempt to warble through your explanation. “It’s, um- it feels weird. I don’t think I can take off my tights…”

“Well, we have to dress the wound otherwise it might get infected.” Adrian pauses, raises his hands so they hover over your lap. “Is it okay if I..?”

When you nod -- shakily, fearfully, desperately -- his hands continue their journey to your right thigh. His middle and forefingers, surprisingly gentle, slip into the scrunched up fabric at the base of your knee, and a shiver runs down your spine at the feel of his hands there. There is a feeling that slowly blooms in your chest at the sight of Adrian on his knees for you, taking care of you. But it’s being overshadowed by the anxiety gripping your throat and making your head spin in anticipation of the potential pain to come from your tights being ripped from your bloody knee.

No longer able to keep upright, you gracelessly plop back into the soft sheets, ceiling swaying in your vision. You make no effort to get back up; not like you wanted to watch the horror of Adrian potentially ripping the skin off your knee.

His voice, with a touch of anger that’s still unusual to hear, cuts through the haze of worry. “I hate those motherfuckers for doing this to you.”

A humorless, breathy snort escapes at that, shame sapping the energy out of you. “That wasn’t their fault,” you mumble. “‘M not tryin’ to defend them or anything, but it was my stupid, drunk ass that tripped and got myself into this whole mess…”

Because the truth is, if you hadn’t drunkenly stumbled down the wrong street when trying to find your Uber, if you hadn’t worn heels that don’t feel natural on your feet anymore, if you hadn’t felt so anguished and lonely that you sought solace in a few too many cocktails-

If you had just been a better friend to the people that made your high school years bearable, you wouldn’t have been crowded and overpowered by strange men with horrifying intentions. 

“Were you… by yourself?” Adrian’s voice carries over you while he’s still somewhere at your knees. “Where were those friends of yours? The ones you were meeting up with?”

The heels of your palms dig furiously into your closed eyes until you’re seeing black and red and you’re sure your eyeballs are just about to successfully squish into your skull. “They never showed up,” you admit, hoarsely, dejectedly.

Moments pass. There’s this light, almost lulling feeling, the tug and pull of your right leg. If you weren’t drowning in the barrage of negative thoughts and guilt and the kind of worthlessness that only creeps up on you in your own bedroom, you’d find Adrian’s ministrations comforting. 

“Don’t get mad, but it doesn’t sound like they were very good friends if they abandoned you to drink alone at club a in a sketchy neighborhood.”

But isn’t that what I deserve?

See- 

You left. Most people did after high school, but you made it a staunch point to never come back. 

You didn’t mean to abandon the friends you made in Evergreen. But life went on, and time passed quicker than you could make sense of, and fuck if you didn’t find any excuse to not come back home during breaks -- internships, supposedly important trips for school, job-hunting, moving in with your first love -- all so you could prolong seeing your family again.

What’s so bad about them, anyway?

They make me feel-

A sharp sting of pain rips you out of dark muddled thoughts, hissing through clenched teeth as you shoot into an upright position, lurching forward. 

“Sorry, sorry! But I did warn you.”

Oh, right. Adrian. You’re in Adrian’s bedroom, and he’s currently at your knees, hair still rumpled and eyes shining bright and concerned behind his glasses. And… he’s holding an alcohol pad. And your knee is…

“You got the tights off?” you ask in breathless disbelief.

“Yeah. I had to cut it up, though.” He grimaces. “Sorry. But it was already torn, so…”

Sure enough, the area around your knee is now fully exposed and free of any sticky mesh. The cut was beginning to scab over, but the alcohol pad made it newly shiny. It stings, but at least it doesn’t look like whatever nightmare scenario you’d been afraid of.

Adrian continues cleaning up and bandaging your wound as you look away, too light-headed to watch him work. It’s not until he’s gently pressing a bandage to your knee that you finally let out a breath you didn’t realize you were even holding. 

“There, all done.” Adrian stands, gathering everything up with careful, unrushed movements. “Let me get you something to sleep in.”

“Huh?” You blink up at him, confused. 

He’s rummaging through a dresser drawer, back turned to you when he responds. “Trust me, you’re not going to want to fall asleep in ripped clothes.” Turning around with some folded clothes in his hands, he continues, “I don’t imagine it’d be very comfortable. Plus, what if you wake up, not remembering what happened--you know, because of the drinking-- and you’re in my bed with a ripped dress? How does that make me look? It’d be pretty hard to convince you I didn’t do anything to you.”

He hands you the clothes--a big soft tee-shirt and sweatpants--and turns to leave. There is a cacophony of feelings clamoring around in your head and in your heart, and you find yourself helplessly overwhelmed once again but also, endlessly grateful for this man that saved your life. Not just tonight, but the night he stepped into your cafe painfully close to closing and made things feel silly and good again. 

“Adrian?” you softly call out as he turns to leave you to change.

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re my best friend.”

Something expands in his chest when Adrian hears those words come out of your mouth. Like a frog puffing up with a croak, or a balloon that’s filled to bursting but doesn’t want to pop. He thinks he was a kid the last time he actually heard someone tell him, to his face, that he’s their best friend.

Sure, the admittance wavered out in an alcohol-infused breath, and he’s not sure how much you had to drink tonight but it may be enough to forget this moment.

But he wasn’t drinking. He’ll hold onto this moment forever.

A smile grows crooked on his face as he hovers by the door, meeting your gaze. “Yeah?”

You nod, holding the clothes handed to you lamely in your lap. There’s something glum about the sag of your shoulders, but he can’t think about that too much in his rush to assure you that you’re his best friend, too. Top 3, definitely.

This makes you snort, which he counts as another win for the night since it’s the first sound of laughter he’s heard since finding you in the alley.

He finally leaves you to change, and to get some much needed rest, and grins from ear to ear at the knowledge that the person he’s liked since high school is in his bed tonight.

Despite the comfort of Adrian’s tee-shirt, the smell of him in his clothes and sheets, the softness of it all wrapped around you, you do not sleep well.

You dream of dark alleyways and even darker figures crowding you, overpowering you. Limbs boneless, unable to fight back. When you scream, it’s not loud enough. There’s a thumping bass reverberating off brick walls that drowns out your cries for help. 

It’s frustrating. This powerlessness. The feeling of utter uselessness, frightening to your core. 

Then, the dream shifts. You are no longer being crowded and pinned by the shadowed figures, yet fear still grips you, clings to your skin, hot and wet- when you look down, the sticky wet feeling isn’t fear but blood, splattered all over your clothes and dripping from your arms. You want to feel triumph, search for the feeling in the recesses of your brain, you want so badly for that to replace the anxiousness gripping your lungs now that you’re free.

But when you look back up, you see viscera-laden bricks. Bodies with holes where they shouldn’t be, missing pieces. This is still a nightmare.  A familiar voice, tainted by something dark and unrecognizably sinister, laughs at the mouth of the alley. It’s another shadowy figure, red visor glowing in your direction. “You’re okay now,” he says, tone unsettling, too-chipper. “They’re all dead!”

taglist: @whatevermonkey @nobodys-baby-now @hiddlebatchedloki @pokoyolfhw

[mammons-sugar-mama]

Lean On Me? Mammon.

Summary: "You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what Lucifer had said to Mammon all day, nor had you seen the demon anywhere. Something which anyone who knew Mammon, knew was a strange thing indeed." Mammon shuts himself away after an argument with Lucifer, and you take it upon yourself to cheer him up. Also Beel is there, kinda. You bit into the sandwich you had brought for lunch, spicy sliced “devil quail,” which just tasted like chicken, on rolls you had made on Sunday that had miraculously lasted until now. You idly wondered if miracle, and its derivatives, was seen as a taboo down here. The Devildom cicada's otherworldly screech had once unnerved you but now, you noted, they brought you a sense of great comfort. You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about what Lucifer had said to Mammon all day, nor had you seen the demon anywhere. Something which anyone who knew Mammon, knew was a strange thing indeed. You sighed and tried to ignore your worry, something you had never been good at, and headed up to your alchemy class. You had entered a unit of poisons, and had taken it upon yourself to keep Beel’s jowls clean of any ingredients. You wiped your brow of sweat after what was supposed to be alchemy became aerobics. Keeping Beel’s kidneys free of toxins had proven to be a full time job. All your body wanted to do was sink into a hot bath, but your mind had other ideas. You gave the hallways of RAD one last fruitless scan for snowy hair, before taking off to The House of Lamentation at a gentle trot. “Mammon…?” You called out softly, knocking on his door. No answer. You knocked again. And again. And continued until an awkward clearing of the throat scared you half out of your skin. You whipped around with a squeak to find a sheepish looking Mammon. “Was in the shower..” He muttered softly, gesturing vaguely at his dampened hair. An awkward silence hung in the air as the two of you gazed at each other, neither moving. “So, if ya don’t need nothin’ from me, I’ll just head on in,” Mammon lifted you and gently moved you out of his path to the door like you were some sort of unclear cat. “Hey!! I do need something from you, you know.” You replied indignantly, puffing out your cheeks slightly. Mammon gave a chuckle that gave way to a surprised gasp as you pulled him into his bedroom. “Oi! Careful with the goods, you do realize this is MY bedroom right? What gives??” He asked, using his played up annoyance to mask the way your gaze made his insides clench. “You aren’t okay.” A beat of silence, followed by many “of course I am”s and “I’m the Great Mammon”s. “No, you’re not okay!” You cut him off with uncharacteristic roughness in your voice, causing Mammon to close his mouth with a soft click. “And you know what else you’re not?! Stupid! Or a scumbag! Or a waste of space!!” Mammon stared at you with an unreadable expression. “Then what am I, huh?” “You’re my first. You’re my Mammon. You make me laugh, you make me feel safe, and listened to, and you’re the first person I think of when I feel sad, or happy, or anything! You’re my Mammon!” You don’t know when you closed your eyes, or when Mammon got close enough to kiss you, but you definitely weren’t complaining. You could do without the salt of tears though, whoever’s they may be. You pulled away to wipe his tears, and to hold his crimson cheeks in your hands. “I bet you were just DYIN’ for a kiss from The Great Mammon!” He started, before you rolled your eyes and silenced him against your lips.

[culpeppercheckers721]

I'd love to hear you rant about the closet scene in Private Woodhull. If you'd like to. Heehee

YES, YES YES YES YES THE COAT ROOM SCENE, THE COAT ROOM SHIT 🤡

(Apologies it took me so long to answer this ask, wanted to take my time with it because I fucking LOVE this episode and the Kennedy House Party scene and I have much to say about it 🤪)

Although I regard the draughts scene in the finale as the moment I ACTUALLY started shipping Townhull, I started to notice their subtext earlier in season 4 which is what eventually made me start shipping them, and the point where that subtext became SO OBVIOUS to me was THIS FUCKING EPISODE. 🤡

I could talk all about the heated glares they shoot each other in Rivington’s and the undertones you could pick up from some of their conversation and how hilarious that scene plays if you imagine they ARE in a… ehem, what do people say now, “situationship”? But the real shit is definitely the Kennedy House Party scene, which Rob litERALLY INVITED HIMSELF TO WHEN HE WANTED TO GET ABE ALONE THERE. HELP.

So yes, Abe is already nervous but when Robert walks in you can tell he’s even closer to losing his composure, and the way that whole scene is framed and they stare at each other in surprise, is, as many people have pointed out before me, framed like an actual Romeo & Juliet knock-off. Quite literally. And after all of those meaningful stares, and the sheer MANNER in which Robert looks at Abe as he walks by and then talks to Arnold instead (and it is hard to see unless you zoom in but you can just barely see a very tiny Rob in the background of that shot as Abe approaches him because HE DID NOT STOP LOOKING AT HIM), it’s implied that as they’re both putting on a mask, a performance for all the redcoats and loyalists around them as they try so hard to appear “normal” once again, Robert is basically keeping an eye on Abe the entire evening before he actually appears again after the coat room debacle but let me get into that specifically!! That scene:

So of course, as we all know, it’s actually Cicero who wrote the “cloak room” note (so tempted to make the Stranger Things joke I did on my first watch like “MEET ME. BATHROOM. STEVE.”) so we don’t get a scene of them both in a dark enclosed space sadly. (Who else was half convinced they were gonna make out in the coat closet lmaooo.) But, on your first viewing, the AUDIENCE is definitely under the impression (as is Abe) that Townsend is the one who wrote the note, and is trying to have a private word with him in the coat room, and if that doesn’t read like implications of a liaison I don’t know WHAT does.

And you’re right, I didn’t even think of that, but it is really wild that the audience was led to believe they were going to meet in a CLOSET. HELLO. (And even if it’s not a traditional coat closet because the only actual use we see it get is as a “restroom”, I would still call it one.) God I wish they had in fact ended up in there after his talk with Cicero ahahah. 🤭

[But at least we have fan-fiction for that 😌]

But anyhow, after Abraham opens the coat closet, already bickering with Robert (“do you really think this is the place—”) before he realizes it’s Cicero, the immediate moment he walks back out, Townsend is already staring at him and instantly seizing his attention as he advances on him, so much so to the point where it almost looked like they were about to bump into each other before the two of them stop themselves.

And as Townsend is acting more assertive as he so often does with Abe, you can easily interpret double-meanings from some of their ensuing dialogue (“didn’t stay in New York to sit still,” “tonight, outside the coffeehouse,” etc etc, it is all very easy to take out of context if you ask me), and I also noticed it really looks like Abraham glances down at his lips or something as they’re talking? Like his eyes go down but he doesn’t seem to be facing the floor, he’s looking higher than that…?

Just food for thought, and after some more very heated stares and their talk in the hallway, again I think they laid the subtext on THICK in this scene.

Even the way it’s shot, which is significant in many of their scenes— it’s implied they’re in a hallway where they can be overhead, and yet they look so physically close to each other, and the space looks so small and enclosed as Robert properly glares at him. I don’t think it’s subtle.

The meaningful looks & typical glaring, just that way they look at each other, the implication that they could have met in a literal closet after all, how it’s all framed, the simple fact that they’re both putting on an act until they’re alone with each other… It’s something to contemplate.

What might be perceived as an incidental stare means a lot more when viewed with the history of their relationship, and with how very much tension and chemistry I’d say is woven into all of their interactions. The undertones are THERE.

I ultimately believe that, as much as so many of their scenes are laced with double-meanings, this one is particularly special as it really caught my attention the first time I saw it, and makes me think it was no accident that these two behave the way they do together. Overdramatic as it sounds, I think there is, truly, an inherent homoeroticism to the way they’re framed and portrayed in scenes like this, and how contrasting yet endlessly similar they are. There’s something so beautiful about it. Fucken love them. I may cry.

As per usual, this is not as eloquent as my language can potentially get, but I find this scene so amusing and I was so excited to do this ask that I can’t be scholarly about this right now. 😂

I usually don’t say this, but I really appreciate anyone else interested sharing this around since I spent way more time on it than was necessary. ;D

Thanks for reading! 🍂🫡

[saintsenara]

I am delighted reading the answers to the ship name game. I am sorry for the number of questions that I have filled in your inbox with. What do you think about Molly/Narcissa, Fleur/Ginny, Hermione/Luna (you once mentioned that they both have a similar stubborness and can quite rigid belief systems and intellectual inflexibility and Sybil/Rita- love the idea of a office romance where Sybil does the astrology column of a pop culture spinoff of The Prophet

thank you so much for the ask, pal - and i love receiving these, so please don't apologise!

narcissa malfoy/molly weasley

so, i genuinely back this one - like lucius and arthur and ron and draco, narcissa and molly are narrative mirrors, and narrative mirror pairings always slap.

above all, one key area of their mirroring is that they're simultaneously central to their family's arc across the canon series, and yet also excluded from their family more generally by the narrative.

molly, for example, lacks the daring streak which characterises the rest of her family who appear in the main cast of the series, is much more interested in social convention, and is estranged from the child with whom she is most aligned [percy] for much of the series; she isn't a quidditch fan [there's no conceivable reason why she wouldn't come to the world cup if she was]; she doesn't seem to have any friends or connections that she doesn't also share with arthur [whereas he seems to be genuinely popular among his colleagues at the ministry]; and she is almost never seen outside of a domestic context - and when she is, it's usually while shopping or doing other activities which are adjacent to the domestic sphere.

narcissa gets less development because she's a more minor character, but she clearly lacks the rebellious streak which both bellatrix and andromeda must possess in order to defy the wizarding world's gendered conventions so openly; she's not a death eater, unlike her husband and son, and is therefore excluded from both lucius and draco's main social circle; she doesn't appear to have any friends outside of her family that she doesn't know through lucius; and she too is found in canon primarily in a domestic or domestic-adjacent context.

i think that both narcissa and molly must, therefore, be quite lonely, and i think that something really quite interesting can be done with that - especially in a post-war setting, with narcissa trying to come to terms with the fact that the defiance of voldemort she set in motion ended with molly killing her sister.

fleur delacour/ginny weasley

ginny spending most of half-blood prince acting up about how fleur thinks she's so hot and so interesting is definitely giving bisexual awakening.

fleur letting ginny wear a really low-cut dress at her wedding - and not being bothered in the slightest that this results in ginny's rack being given a shoutout to the entire congregation by muriel - is also giving bisexual and interested.

i back it.

hermione granger/luna lovegood

flopping - she'd never stop going on about that damn erumpet ["luna it is not a snorcack!"] horn.

rita skeeter/sybill trelawney

i really, really back this one as something genuine.

both rita and sybill’s lives are based in pure artifice. their careers hang on an ability to know things - sybill to predict the future, rita to be informed about the top news stories of the day - which neither of them actually possess. sybill is a fraud. rita is a hack.

and that must be very lonely. which means that meeting someone else who shares that experience…

plus, both of them are characters who fall foul of jkr’s loathing of women whose appearance and demeanour deviates from her extremelynarrow criteria for acceptable femininity - sybill because she looks spacey and gaudy, rita because she decks herself out in glamorous frivolities - her nails! her handbags! - which can’t mask the fact that she looks ‘manly’ […!]. jkr’s opinions on gender can get fucked, and the women she spends the series obviously loathing getting fucked by each other is one way to achieve this.

[writeforfandoms]

Welcome to New York 7

Find the series masterlist

You finally see more of Miguel than his ire, and you like what you see.

Warnings: Pain, migraine, eye strain, poor reader does not have a fun time at the beginning, Miguel is still stubborn, but so is reader, Lyla is an instigator.

Word count: 1.8k

Eventual Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

Another week had passed, and your cuts were mostly healed up. Thank goodness. The itching had driven you crazy for a day or two. You’d brought in cookies once more, and so far your secret as the baker was still safe. You were sure Miguel knew, and obviously Jess knew, but nobody else had approached you about it.

Which was just fine with you. 

You ended up in the caf, slumped at a table with nothing but tea in front of you, headache pounding behind your eyes. Your stomach threatened to rebel at the very thought of food, everything was too bright, and if you weren’t in the middle of Spider Society HQ you’d be tempted to curl up under the table and die. 

A gentle rap to the tabletop made you lift your head just enough to see who had disturbed you. Your heart still lurched into overtime on seeing Miguel, mask gone, crouched down to be almost on a level with you. 

“You look like shit,” he said, voice quiet. 

“Thanks,” you rasped with as much sarcasm as you could muster. If Miguel was here, he probably needed something, so you braced yourself. “What do you need?” 

He blinked, just once. His brow furrowed, gaze sweeping over you again. “You need to go to medical.”

You huffed and put your head down again, forehead pillowed on your arms. “No I don’t,” you muttered, obstinate. “Just need a bit of rest.” 

“Then rest at home.” Miguel shifted closer to you, eyes narrowing further. “Do not fall asleep on the table.”

You huffed. Who knew he was so bossy? (And definitely less scary when he was fussing, as opposed to holding your weight near the edge of a building.) 

Miguel huffed right back at you. “Go home,” he repeated firmly, standing back to his impressive height. 

“Sure thing, bossman,” you mumbled into the cushion of your arms. You were tired and hurting and about 80% certain if you tried to get up you’d go right back down. 

You didn’t hear him retreat and didn’t see him, but you knew you were alone again. You breathed out slowly, trying to muster the energy necessary to get up and go. He was right - you’d be useless the rest of the day if this headache persisted. The glowing screens were probably the worst possible thing to look at while your eyes hurt like this. 

It took a few more minutes to get up, and you swayed, just a little. But nobody gave you a second look as you left the caf, cool tea still sitting on the table. You even made it to the elevator to get back to the main portion of the building, one hand half-covering your eyes to help lessen the glare. 

The pain wasn’t debilitating yet, you could make it. 

You did fumble to a halt on the bottom floor, though. You really didn’t want to walk, and you hadn’t had the foresight to call a cab. Fuck. Resigned to endure a little longer, you leaned back against a wall to summon a cab, fingers nearly slipping on your pad. 

“Hey! Didn’t you see the signs?” a nasally voice demanded, loud and only growing louder as the person approached. “No loitering!” 

You blinked, squinting a little. You couldn’t see much beyond dark blue business attire, and didn’t even try to look this asshole in the face. Even lifting your hand to look that much had hurt, needles driving straight through your eyes into your brain. “Waiting for a cab,” you answered, short and soft. You didn’t think you could raise your voice more than that, honestly. 

“Are you drunk?” the person demanded, stopping in front of you, openly disapproving. “Or hungover?”

You didn’t answer, hoping if you ignored him, he’d go away. Of course you weren’t that lucky. 

“Which office do you work in?” they demanded, stepping closer to you. The smell of their cologne was nauseating, too strong and artificial. You honestly thought you’d throw up for a moment, eyes watering with the combination of everything. 

The person backed off a step as an unlikely savior stepped between you. You blinked when the light around you dimmed, blocked by someone’s frame. Miguel’s, you realized after a moment of silent shock. He’d dressed down into street clothes, though that didn’t soften the breadth of his shoulders or his height, not at all. 

He didn’t even have to say a word to have the other person scurrying away, and you slumped in relief against the wall. 

“I told you to go home.” Miguel turned to look down at you. 

You made a vague motion at the cab you could just barely see outside. “I was waiting,” you rasped. You even sounded awful now. 

Miguel didn’t say a word, but he did wrap an arm around you, helping you out to the cab. You needed it when the sunlight made pain lance through your skull, nearly enough to make your knees buckle. 

But you were shocked when Miguel dropped into the seat next to you. 

“What–?” you started, hand lowering from your eyes. 

“Just making sure you get home.” His hand fastened around your wrist, gentle but implacable, as he pushed your hand back over your eyes. 

You didn’t try to question him again, just breathing past the agony in your head. You’d be home soon and you could bury yourself in blankets until things felt less awful. 

Miguel didn’t just see you off at your building, though. He kept his arm around you into the elevator, and then to your door. He didn’t say a single thing, just supported as much of your weight as you needed. 

Finally, though, you were in your apartment. You made it to the couch and collapsed face-down with a muffled whine of pain. Still too bright. But you didn’t have the energy to move. But too bright. 

Until the brightness dimmed. You didn’t even question it, just went as boneless as possible and pulled a pillow over your head, half-tempted to try smothering yourself. 

The door clicked as it closed, the lock engaging after a moment. You didn’t pay attention to anything else, busy breathing through the pain, until you finally fell asleep. 

There was a message on your pad in the morning informing you to take the day and recover. You thought about arguing or going in anyway… but honestly, you were still exhausted. 

You ended up sleeping half the day away. 

You felt up to working the following day, though, and intentionally didn’t check your messages before you headed to HQ. 

“Well, you look better,” Lyla said, popping up once you were in the elevator. 

“Definitely feeling better,” you agreed, smiling. “Did I miss anything exciting?”

“Weeeeeell.” Lyla smirked, floating along next to your shoulder as you walked to the elevator to take you down to your work area. “Miguel threatened to throw Peter B. out a window.” 

“Wow, Peter must have really annoyed him.” Your eyebrows shot up your forehead and you side-eyed the AI. “Then again, I’m pretty sure Miguel threatens him on like a weekly basis.”

Lyla shrugged, still with that mischievous smirk. “I can neither confirm nor deny.” 

You snorted and pulled your sweater on as the chilly air of the computer room made you shiver. “Right, where did I leave off?”

Lyla obligingly pulled up the files, and you took a moment to just look. There was still so much work to do.

“Do we know why the multiverse has turned into swiss cheese?” you grumbled an hour later, busy sorting files into the appropriate folders.

“Not exactly,” Lyla hedged. “Miguel has a theory, but…” 

You blew out a breath. “But it is just a theory,” you mumbled, shaking your head. “Right. Okay. Continued damage control it is.” 

But the mention of Miguel doing damage control made you think of two days prior, when he’d not only ordered you to go home but escorted you home himself. You honestly never would have expected it of him. Hell, you’d been convinced he still disliked you. 

Until he’d taken care of you. In a slightly weird way, but still. He’d even pulled your curtains closed to help block out the light. 

A simple thank you for his help didn’t seem like enough.

“Hey, Lyla?” You waited until the AI hummed to continue. “What’s Miguel’s favorite type of cookie?” 

Lyla blipped out to appear right in front of you, leaning forward, an impish smile stretching her lips. “Miguel’s? Why, you thinking of making him cookies?”

You warmed at the clear implication in her tone and huffed. “I want to thank him for helping me, the other day,” you admitted, waving a hand at her. “But he won’t just accept a thank you.”

Her expression softened and she backed off a bit. “Well, you’re not wrong,” she chirped. “I don’t think he has a favorite cookie. But…”

“But?” You leaned forward a little, eyebrows raised, well aware that she was dangling a carrot in front of you. 

“He likes empanadas. Loves ‘em, really. I’ve seen him devour six.” 

You blinked, leaning back again. Empanadas. You’d never made those before. Maybe that could be a weekend project. 

“Thanks, Lyla.”

“Have fun!” She vanished with one last wink, leaving you to your work. 

You made a batch of chocolate chip cookies that night, leaving the best of the cookies on Miguel’s floating platform. The rest got left in the caf again. 

The weekend adventure was making empanadas. You tried three different recipes - two savory and one sweet. Did you go overboard? Maybe a little. But it turned out to be kinda fun, and your first attempts at closing the things was… less than pretty. (Those you ate, unwilling to give those to anyone else.) 

You left early on Monday morning specifically so you could drop the empanadas in Miguel’s office.

And then you booked it back down to your work space and turned on music, pretending not to hear Lyla’s attempts to tease you. 

But the best moment of all was at lunch. You had decided to try to power through the day, having hit a good rhythm with your work and your music. You bopped your head side to side a little as you tagged videos for ease of reference. 

When you finally resurfaced, mid-afternoon, starving and tired and probably a bit dehydrated, you didn’t have to go far to find food. 

A big reusable water bottle (with a sticker from your favorite show, you noted with surprise) and food. Left specifically for you. 

“Lyla?” You blinked at both the water bottle and the food. The bottle was nice, heavy duty. That would definitely become a favorite. “Did a certain grumpy spider leave this?” 

“No idea what you mean,” Lyla answered playfully. “Haven’t got a clue.” She winked, though. 

You just smiled. Well. Miguel really wasn’t so bad. Maybe you could even be friends with him.

[riddle-me-ri]

A/N: let's goooo, here's the Mad Hatter edition of "readers ignoring *insert rogue*'s affection" series...thing lmao. I will say out of the three rogues I've done of this (including this one as the third) I've never been more imperative that you don't pull this kinda thing on them...just...10/10 DON'T recommend folks.

Reader Ignores The Mad Hatters' Affections

Arkhamverse Mad Hatter: 

Oh? What’s this?

You just must be distracted.

Jervis will wrap his arms around you, giving a notably tight squeeze.

You still seem to ignore him steadfastly.

He’s growing confused. 

If not frustratingly confounded. 

It would be wise you drop the act now…please

Tell him you felt funny or something made you confused.

I don’t think he’ll understand or appreciate the idea of you “teasingly” ignoring him.

Assure him that it won’t happen again and everything will be right as rain…

I advise you not to do it again in the future.

BTAS Mad Hatter: 

Immediately knows something is off. 

Time and time again, you’ve always reciprocated his affection in your own way.

For you to cease them completely…is strange. 

He asks if he did something wrong or if someone upset you.

You shrug it off and say no. 

This further confuses and upsets Jervis. 

He wants to fix it, he has to fix it. Whatever it is. 

For once he’s not alone, he has someone and now they’re not returning his affections-

You notice his brain starting to turn and turn out of control. 

You get it to stop by kissing his cheek, and immediately apologizing. 

Jervis takes a sigh of relief when you explain you were just curious, but please..

Please don’t do that again. 

TNBA Mad Hatter: 

Like BTAS, he’s practically concerned from the get-go. 

Jervis is wracking his brain on what he may have done wrong. 

When you say it’s not him, you’re just not feeling it…

What the hell does that mean? You-You don’t love him anymore? 

Jervis wasn’t sure if he could live with that…

In fact, he knew he couldn’t. 

You didn’t truly realize the impact of your excuse until you saw how Jervis’ face fell. 

From concern to complete despair. 

You jump to action by wrapping your arms around him and kissing his cheeks. 

You apologize, explaining you were just pulling his leg. 

A wave of relief washes over him, he’s quick to return your embrace. 

But not before begging you not to do that again. 

Gotham Mad Hatter: 

Is likely to believe you’re teasing at first. 

Doesn’t get incredibly upset.

At first. 

Jervis will give you a moment to come to your senses. 

When a moment has passed and nothing has changed. 

He’s fuming on the inside, but tries to keep his cool. 

Hopefully at this point you see him start getting impatient with you. 

Jervis is trying his best to keep it together, but he craves your touch and attention. 

You’re being awfully cruel…and he’d hate to have to be cruel back. 

All tension is relieved when you wrap your arms around him and snuggle into his chest. 

When you implore you were just teasing, he shakes his head. 

He advises you to never, ever tease him like that again…or else. 

HQ:TAS Mad Hatter: 

Likely checks to make sure it’s not his hygiene causing your apprehension. 

It’s not his fault, he’s never had to think about things like; breath, body odor, and things like that. 

But he definitely considers them more now…or atleast makes the effort to. 

When he rules that out…now it’s a matter of wondering if he forgot something. 

It wasn’t any of that, you just kept ignoring him or giving half answers. 

Jervis grows absolutely frustrated.

When you hear blood-curling screams from men in rabbit masks is when you decide to give in. 

Jervis is almost hysterically elated when you explain it was just a joke. He’s jumping up and down, ecstatic to have you back. 

Joker’s Asylum Mad Hatter: 

Oh god, oh god, oh god. 

Yeah, he’s in full panic mode.

He’s messed up somehow…he was so sure he would!

He always does! He can never have anything good for too long!

Out of all the Jervi, highly suggest you do NOT do this to this one. 

Before you know it, he’s grabbing his hat and making tea, he’s spiraling. 

It takes all your strength and might to break through to him. 

Hold him, kiss him, reassure him, and promise him that you will never deny him affection ever again. 

Secret Six Mad Hatter: 

Well, that’s just rude. 

You know you’re lucky he’s even paying attention to you. 

Besides you don’t always wear a hat, yet he always makes sure to acknowledge you. 

You ignore him the first few times, and he’s quick to ignore you too.

However, he doesn’t hide the fact well, that he’s really hurt by it. 

After years of thinking he’s finally found a partner and you decide to be reserved for some odd reason or another. 

Realizing how far out of control this went, you were quick to set the record straight. 

Jervis at first didn’t want to give you the time of day, why should he? You hurt his feelings!

Yet, he is curious…

When you tell him it was just to see how he’d respond, he’s rather clueless. 

What kind of cruel joke was that? Absolutely maddening you can be sometimes. 

All is well when you kiss him full-heartedly on his lips, but he still plans on getting back at you somehow.

[anemonet]

I want to ask about Moon and Pebbles but I'm bad at asking questions D: My brain is forever empty. But I love them and I love you drawing them

Heeelllooo anon you have activated my trap card!! Brace for words.

First of aww hi thank you thats so sweet, they are so beloved :D

Second of oh boy I hope you were asking for headcanons!! if not.. uh.. Anyhow im gonna talk abit about some iteratormodel thoughts!! Im gonna use this totally legit reference here to you know, viszualize.

Keep in mind this is all just my own thoughts!

So to get started I like to seperate iterators into older models v newer models - older being ones before anchients lived on top of them and the newer ones post ancheints - which reflects how their built. Older ones like moon are for one, well.. older, older tech and older materials, their clunkier and larger, think the teddybear phones. Second, their made to be low maintence, their built somewhere and then they will just chug along till they solve The Great problem. They generally more durable, hide all inner wiring and machinery with plates, all delicate things like hands are also covered. In short their more machines and tools than anything else.

The newer models in contrast like pebbles are more like our modern smartphones: lighter, sleeker, more functions and also shit quality, which is why pebbles got a much sleeker and thinner look. And besides the fact that tech evolves and develops this also ties into how their created (possibly? not sure if its actully canon who knows) when the ancheints are in closer proximity to the iterators, - think how pebbles entrence is bascily right by artificers entrence to pebbles city - their now not only machines, their something closer to art(?) their something to show off ( i have some deranged thoughts about iterator manifacturing and capatlism but lets not get into that) and they are now something not just a machine, working somewhere unseen, they are now objects you can see, so they need a "cooler" look. ( think like those transparent gameconsols)

-- also side note i read a like comment somewhere talking about iterators and ancheints beautystandards which oh boy, feral. and i like to think that shows in pebbles and the newer models design much more than older ones, the whole thin gangly monk look and tiny feet (ancheint bound their cool birdfeet) and a more elaborate design. I always found it curious that iterators dont wear masks but i guess there is a distance, i mean its funny that the people who wanted death most of all created something that couldnt die, - also it implies some iterators killed themself which oh boy - anyhow i also have a lot of thoughts of iterators using wires as hairdoes but this tangent is getting long so i stop.--

so to come to somewhat of an end, moons definitely just gonna chug along till the world ends if needed while pebbles probably started cracking his shell and wires like half a century after maintence stopped, boys not made to last in that way, aestetics over function if you will. also no this is not an elaborate way to explain why moon is just bigger ( i like drawing soft squares, sue me) and let me tell you it felt very fucked up to draw naked pebbles. Now i think i talked to long but again if you read this long thanks for the ask!!! I hope I answered nothing!!

also bonus drawing cause i think that was what you were actully asking for :))

[burakkuhardt-hc]

((Random character interaction, for personal notes- not thought out nor edited I simply do not care enough))

The mail delivery man stalked up the long, long driveway to a manor so deep into the hills and surrounding forest that he could not see even the top of it from his current trek.

At about halfway up the hill stood a large military-like security gate, connected to thick walls surrounding the entirety of the estates land. This was, of course, a usual sight for the man by now as he had been delivering mail here for a good eight years now- ever since the military struck deal with Quade Enterprises.

He had meant to object, he recalls, when originally given the job; everyone knew that before the world fell, 'Quade' was actually just a fancy name for some kind of Bratva- but, well. He was a mail man. This was all he'd ever been, and no 'end of the world' nor Russian Mafia could really change that-

He didn't know how to be anything else.

So, the man approached the gate.

"essential papers, sir" he greeted the stone-faced guard with a well practiced smile.

He hadn't met this one yet, he thought. It was impossible to tell these days wether the fellow was a military man or Mafia; if it had been a good ten/twelve years earlier, the answer would have been much simpler, he imagined. The man was short, but built up enough to where he had no issues throwing his weight around, the mail man was sure- arms covered in abstract tattoos and hair cut into a messy fade that wisped about in no uniform manor. His eyes were dark in the way ones only got when they saw death up close, his expression was cold and screwed up in a mask of anger that, judging by the dead lines on his face, never really went away.

Ten or twelve years ago, this would be a man in which if one happened upon him in their day, they would cross the street to avoid him and try not to make eye contact, less something horrible befall them.

But on this day of this year, he could be anyone. Mafia or Military, a grocer, or a mailman- it was all the same thing, really.

This particular mail man tried his best not to think about it, usually.

"Funny they'd send you for something essential" the maybe-mafia-maybe-military man replied, not bothering to look at the other.

It was probably meant as an insult, but it felt to him as if the man had kept all the context to himself- and it didn't have any effect that way, really.

"Are you new, sir? You're not the usual post"

"I've been here since the start. Or the end, rather." He again did not look up, instead opting to rifle through a desk.

It dawned on the mail man then that maybe it should still frighten him, to see a man like this in unfamiliarity, all alone at the top end of nowhere.

He swallows down whatever feeling that came, defaulting to the ever present professionalism that came with a life time of public servitude. "Military man then?"

And that's what finally makes the man stop, slowly turning to the other with an almost offended confusion. "...wouldn't that be the day" he says under his breath, glaring at nothing in particular. And the mail man almost laughs at this- because against all odds, the not-military mans expression is far far softer like this, in a glare, than it ever was resting. "No. I just. Y'know. I live here." He finishes, eyes dragging up to look at the man in front of him, finally addressing him outright.

The mail man quickly glances at his papers, checking for recipient. "...are you...Quade then?" It didn't sound right at all- definitely not what he had been picturing all these years, at least. Sure, the man was gruff and angry and looked to kill a man just for the ease of it- but to own half the world in bloody hands?

The mans eyes go dead. "I'm the fuckin' housekeeper for all you care, are you going to leave the papers or not?"

Technically, he wasn't allowed to give mail to non-recipients. But he also hadn't lived this long by angering murderous men strapped with guns- so, he hands the man his mail.

It seems maybe this was a bad time to come. Guards not at their posts, someone rifling through desks and being harsh to mail men that have done nothing wrong- he vaguely wonders if maybe he had caught the middle of a hostile takeover; though there wasn't nearly enough violence for something like that.

Well- not unless you were either very very good, or very very bad, at your job.

The man turns quickly and almost runs straight into him- only then does he realize he has a good foot of height over the angry fellow. "Why are you still here?" He bites towards the mail man. "Who delivers mail in the apocalypse anyway??"

"Well. Someone has to, don't they? The world goes on..."

"Until it doesn't."

Until it doesn't.

He thought of that for a moment- how funny an idea was it to be delivering mail when half the world's been shut down. When there were literal monsters roaming the streets- when your everyday jobs had been replaced with tightly restricted government sanctions.

How odd was it to be delivering mail to a Mafia military base in the middle of the woods, all alone, just an average Joe?

"...why am I delivering mail in the apocalypse?" He parrots in a daze, some dissociative spell broken by strange reality.

"It's been like, five years, shouldn't you know by now?" Came the response he wasn't looking for. It was said in such a disinterest that showed the small man had already written him off entirely, as if already gone.

"Ten." He says weakly.

"What?"

"It's been at least ten years since the end, sir."

The angry man considers that for a moment "Well fuck me" he bites out with annoyed surprise. "When did I get so old?" His gaze lands on the other again, and there's a surprising lack of anger there. "We do need mail." He says in quiet consideration. "And I'm obviously too senile to get it myself."

"You look barely thirty, sir?"

He shrugs at that. "If you stop bringing me mail, I'm going to be very upset." He didn't sound upset, nor did he look it. Instead, there was a lacing of sadness and desperation that the mail man could only really read as guilt. "Do you understand?"

And it was strange, surely, but it felt like purpose all the same.

"Rain or shine, sir."

[kalyri]

Yet another “I suddenly remembered” from me—after midnight when my brain just decides to randomly go off on its own, wandering through memories.

This one’s got transphobia and I hate it.

I was a trucker for the last four years of my life, and during my… second year? I think? Yeah, I was in my automatic instead of the manual. Anyway, I’d worked all day, probably close to 10 hours driving so like a 12 hour work day. Pretty typical of my mid to late work week at the time.

And I wanna say I was in Alabama. I could probably tell you exactly where this Pilot was, but I’ll leave that out. Anyway, I was exhausted, I was hungry, and I really had to pee, so I went into the bathroom. And I tended to sit in there for a good long while because walking the half a mile from my truck to the store to pee wasn’t something I wanted to do more than twice in a night. So I’m sitting there and I’m not paying attention to anything, people come in and leave. It’s a bathroom, most people are in there for 1 of 2 things.

Well, suddenly someone’s banging on my door. I make a noise, like mm? And she says something but I don’t fucking know what it was, I’m hard of hearing. So I ask her to repeat it and she says it again, but still not loud enough and I said “I don’t know” or something. Idk. I had no idea why she was knocking on stall door, there were like 4 stalls and I was the only one in there before she came in.

So I think nothing of it, but she’s being loud with her children—what I assumed were two boys at the time. She leaves soon after and then maybe five minutes later someone else comes in and pounds on the door and asks me a question. I ask him to repeat it and he does: “what’s your gender?” In more words than that, but you could tell he was uncomfortable. And I asked him why? He said he just needed me to answer and then like the bottom dropped out from under me. Because I could simply answer what he wants to hear—but I instead say “why does it matter? I’m using the toilet.” And he tries to get me to answer again, I don’t and he sighs and leaves.

And I continue scrolling like Facebook or tumblr or ao3 or whatever and then I think about it—I’m in Alabama… they could call the cops on me, lol. So I say fuck it, wash my hands, and leave. And I can feel eyes on me. The ladies behind the check out counter—my plan of getting McDonald’s goes out the window and I leave through the trucker entrance. And I call my mom. Because I’m shaking.

This lady knew nothing about me, but made an assumption based on the only thing she could see—my work boots. And then made another assumption on the only thing she knew—the pitch of my voice, which isn’t high on a normal day, and definitely wasn’t that night because at the end of a long work day, the last thing I want to do is mask for strangers. So I don’t.

I’m non-binary. Visibly not feminine, but not exactly masculine. I was wearing jeans, tshirt, and my work boots—which just looked like low-rise hiking boots because my feet are weird and I can’t wear calf high footwear.

Like it doesn’t surprise me that it happened. Some people are just hateful and refuse to mind their own business. But it’s so much different when it happens to you. And I was reminded of that just a few minutes ago because my brain just likes to throw random memories at me for no reason some days and today it was that one.

I made a point of avoiding that truck stop for at least a month afterwards. There’s a few more on that stretch of interstate that are better anyway…

[be-my-prince]

Keir/Reader - Predictable

keir is best boy of the week. i had to do this eventually. i’ve been egged.

word count: 739

[masterpost]

Keir wasn't a chaser. He wasn't one to mother, despite the jabs and accusations thrown at him once the crew was one too many drinks in.

He could argue that it was simply because he didn't have it in him, but frankly, he just didn't care enough to. Sure, he knew some people who needed to get their shit together. But that wasn't his problem.

Their shit, their problem.

Life was just easier that way.

But when he saw your cloak draped over the side of the sofa, it sat oddly in him, a discomfort that had him scooping it up before he could think twice. And then there he was, knocking at your door.

"Hey, you left your stuff out here."

Not that he cared. He couldn't care less about where you left your belongings, as long as you were neat about it. But you never went anywhere without your cloak, and he had slowly come to learn that you were a creature of habit.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly when he'd realized it, just that it sort of seeped into his way of life until he simply couldn’t deny it.

Maybe it was in the way you tidied the kitchen after meals. He chucked the dishes and silverware into wherever they fit. You took the time to sort them out, like you actually cared about this shithole.

Or maybe in the way you liked to organize his books alphabetically. Sometimes by title, sometimes by author. Oh yes, he noticed. He may be messy, but that didn't mean he didn't have a system in place. One that you'd completely ruined, by the way, but he found himself oddly... charmed more than anything else.

Or it could just be the little quirks he came to notice over time. The way you tilted your head when you were deep in thought. How you shifted your feet when you were uncertain. The soft hum when you were making a decision.

You were predictable. Maybe that was boring to most people, but in his wayward lifestyle, it was almost... comforting.

He knocked on your door again, more firmly this time. You probably wanted your cloak.

When you didn't answer, he glanced down at the doorknob. It was a boundary that had been crossed once— and only once. It had been an emergency. You were sick. He slipped in food and water. Both of you agreed to stop locking your doors after that incident, but that was still as far as he'd ever gone in your room.

This wasn't so much an emergency, but it bothered him. He figured it'd bother you too. And knowing you, you wouldn't mind terribly as long as he kept his presence at a minimum.

He opened the door to your room, and it was probably half way open when he found himself staring at your masked face.

"The fuck?" He jerked back, heart in his throat. After taking a moment to let it settle, he shot you a glare. "By the Lunar God's scars, why are you just standing there?"

But you could hardly explain, having doubled over in laughter at the sight of him. It was such a stupid sound —this whole situation was stupid— but it had his stomach doing somersaults.

His anatomy was so fucked.

"Oh hells," you giggled, hardly able to speak through the bouts of chuckles. "I-I can't believe you fell for it.” “Explain.” He fought to keep his voice flat, steady. “Griff and I bet 20 coin that you mother people when given the chance to,” you managed to get out while definitely wearing a shit-eating grin. “I was just wondering how far you'd go."

"You set me up." He was in near disbelief.

"And you are a nagger." You stepped out and shut the door behind yourself, snagging the cloak from his hands. "I'm gonna go collect. Don't wait up, mum."

He watched as you wrapped the fabric around yourself snuggly, then disappeared through the front door. Slowly, he shook his head, but failed to stop the corners of his lips from twitching upwards.

Just when he thought he had you pinned, you were something else.

But he didn't dwell on that for long— he was too busy chasing you right out the door because, well, he wasn't just about to let you ruin his reputation.

[hauntedwitch04]

Ghosty blanket

🎃Halloween party🎃  

Tasm!Peter Parker x reader

Words: about 0.7k words

Warning: none, just pure and lovely fluff with our Pete, and a bit of heart attack for the reader 

Author’s note: So this is for the 7th but how I already said yesterday I felt like shit and I couldn’t post. Today I won’t post the one for the 8th ‘cause I have to go out and see some friends and I don’t have time probably to post it. Btw hope you like it!

✒️:    "You saw the ghost, too." "Love...it was a fucking bedsheet."

Requests are open I  Ask  I  My masterlist   I  Join the Taglist

The cold October air caresses your face as you wait patiently for your boyfriend on the roof of your building. You have known for almost a year now that Peter is Spider-Man, given one night, after only six months of being together, he showed up injured in front of your bedroom window in his suit, asking you for help. 

For the past few months you have made a habit of seeing each other at night after he has made his rounds in the neighborhood, to check that all is well, on the roof of your building. Even if andesso it starts to get a little colder you would not replace this moment with anything else: you love spending time with Peter up here, away from everyone and everything, without worry, as you watch the moon rise in the sky over Queens. 

As you stand there looking around, spying on their lives of others through their windows, you hear a dry thud behind you. Immediately you turn around already knowing who you would see. 

"Hey Pete!" You say as you get up, walking toward him with open arms. He still approaches with his suit on and his face covered by his mask, but his arms mimic yours. You hug very tightly, before he removes the mask over his face. His beautiful smile finally returns as his eyes look intently at my face before he kisses me. 

Our mouths dance to music only we know until we are breathless. Once we part, my breath fails me a second time, but this time from fear. 

"What was that?" You say frightened under your breath. He immediately becomes alert, turns around and makes sure you are protected behind him as he checks the whole area. 

"What did you see?" Peter asks in a serious tone. 

"You're going to think I'm crazy, but I saw...a ghost, it was definitely a ghost, or something that looked like one." 

"Honey, we have to stop watching horror movies in the middle of the night because we can't sleep." He says half laughing as you punch him lightly between his shoulder blades. 

"Yeah yeah, you can make fun of me all you want for this, but can you go check it out? I know it sounds silly to you, but it would make me feel a lot better." You whisper the last part, pressing yourself against his back. He looks at you and leaves a kiss on your forehead before answering you. 

"Of course I'll go check, just stay here and try not to get kidnapped by Dracula in the meantime." 

You give him another little slap before he turns away and walks over to where you saw the ghost. What seems like hours but is actually a few seconds pass before a scream from the boy rips through the air. 

"Oh my God Peter, are you all right? Did you see the ghost too? Damn I shouldn't have let you go alone!" You yell back as you walk toward him. 

You see him lying on the ground laughing, holding in his hands a white children's blanket with a stylized ghost on it. 

"Love...it was a fucking bedsheet." He says, as he gets up still laughing at your fear. 

"You're an asshole Peter Parker." You say angrily, as you cross your arms over your chest, even though you too are smiling at the stupid scene that just took place. 

"And you love me for it too." He says, hugging you, and resting the blanket on your shoulders. 

"Unfortunately for me, yes, but you don't have to take advantage of it." You respond by closing your arms around him again. 

You stay for hours more on the roof of the building before entering the apartment, as you talk about this and that and look at the city from above kept warm by that blanket that had so frightened you.