#i watch the Lore moments when they come out
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just-some-random-blogger · 3 days ago
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Sweets & Sweeties
You opened a bakeshop called Sweets & Sweeties which was just beside Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and one day you accidentally lock yourself outside.
George Weasley x Reader (x Fred Weasley) | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, Murphy's law, fred lives stfu, fluff, rizzler!Georgie, typos, etc.
A/N: i have this fic called tormented spirit and its fucked me up cos of how sad it is HAHAHAH i need a break and thats coming from someone who LOVES angst. ALSO i was never super into Harry Potter so idk lore™ but I've been watching the phelps twins and their baking show related content and i'm just so endeared by them AHHHHHHHHH. please leave comments/reblogs because this feels a bit mid cos i havent written fluff in 100 years T_T | cross posted on ao3
@pendragora if i have to suffer, you have to suffer
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Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was always busy. Everyday, there were children and children-at-heart going up and down the block, eager to buy themselves trinket or treat to promptly cause mischief.
Because of the shop's success, your own shop also benefitted from it. Sweets & Sweeties was your dream come true. As a child, you loved sweet treats, and you would grow to learn you loved making them just as much.
You hadn't expected to sell out as often as you did, and you knew it was all thanks to the fact the establishment next door brought as many customers as they did, who then became your customers.
You were extremely grateful, and tried time and time again to show it through a simple gesture of a gift. It was rather hard to find the time to do so however, as the neighbor establishment was constantly packed. The first time you saw the owner of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, he had introduced himself as: "George Weasley," he says, dusting off his hands before reaching one out for you.
You merely stare at him, your smile flattening slightly, only to grow wider as you chuckle. Both of your hands held a tray of cake, and it was quite a weighty cake at that, "I-"
"Right," he brushes his hands on his trousers, "right. Sorry, let me help you with that."
He takes the cake from you and ushers you deeper into the store. You gasp when a small child runs across him, unfortunately bumping into his side. Thankfully, George manages to lift the cake, evading the collision. The girl who bumped into him looks up, eyes wide, hands clutched, looking rather guilty, "s-sorry, Mr. Weasley."
The tall man's brows furrow as he looks down. He whines, "s'not Mr. Weasley, it's George."
The girl stares at him for a moment.
"Say it with me: George."
She clutches her chest and mutters, "Georgie?"
George purses his lips together in a soft smile and nods, "Georgie it is then."
Your hand comes to your mouth as you chuckle and follow after the red haired man. He leads you into the back office and you gasp yet again, this time, because of the photograph on the wall. It was a family portrait of a myriad of other red heads breaking into a wide grin.
"There's two of you!" you point.
George sets the cake down on his desk and crosses his arms once he's besides you, "nah. There's only one person in the family as good looking as me," he turns to the photograph, "that's my twin brother, Fred."
"Oh," you turn to him, taken off guard by how close he was, "is..." you casually take a step back, "he around?"
"Yeah," he shrugs, "probably showing the customers how to use the thingamabobs."
You chuckle and nod, "well," you motion vaguely, "I know you're very busy, so I won't take any more of your time."
The man tilts his head, lips curled into an soft grin as he shrugs, "you don't hear me complaining, love."
You aimlessly look off to steel away the giggle that threatened to leave your lips, "right," you clear your throat, "ehhh, do tell me if the cake is to you—"
Before you can even finish your thought, George is back at his desk. He swipes a dollop of frosting and tastes it.
"—r... liking."
He raises his brows as he nods, "it's to my liking."
The both of you just stand there for a moment, staring at each other. You're now rather painfully aware of your breathing.
You start when the office door bangs open and a near exact replica of George comes walking in, "you would not believe what just—"
George's eyes are on you as you turn to his twin. You raise your hand, "hi... I'm-" you point to nowhere, "-the baker next door."
He turns to George, then back to you, reaching out his left hand, "Fred Weasley."
You smile and shake his hand, speaking your name in return.
"Hey!" George walks over, reaching out a hand, "I didn't get a handshake!"
You turn to George and his outstretched left hand, about to shake it, but Fred does not release you, and only turns to his twin.
"Fred-"
"I'm not done."
George watches Fred shake your hand, "well that's more than enough."
"Not really," Fred shrugs.
You chuckle softly, making them turn to you. You then offer your other hand to George, crossing your arm over the other, "here."
George looks at it and takes it with his right one. The three of your shake each other's hands for a questionably long time.
When you're finally released, you hold back a laugh and rub your palms on the side of your hips, "right... it was a pleasure to meet you both."
They nod in sync, "the pleasure is ours."
You giggle and raise a hand in regard, "come by my shop sometimes."
They wave back at you as you head for the door.
"I'll make you both a cuppa."
They smile as you exit their office. Once you were gone, the brothers instantly turn to each other.
Fred says, "she's cute."
"Yeah, I saw her first," George counters.
"Pfft, so what?"
"So, everything."
Meeting them was so... notable, that you thought about it the entire day. You found yourself giggling about the handshake for the nth time as you closed up, and right after you heard the door click, you whip your head back in realization that you'd left your bag in the counter, along with your keys.
You shake the doorknob, trying to will the door open, though you knew it was pointless, "no, no, no, NO!"
You step back and stare at the windows of your shop. You ruffle your hair and huff as you debate how bad the idea of breaking the glass with the rock would be.
You stare that your sign that read Sweets & Sweeties, feeling taunted by it so suddenly, and then you remember you forgot another thing. The window on the rooftop was surely open from when you opened it to let out some steam. What's more, it looked like it was about to rain!
"Oh," you groan and wrap your arms around yourself, "thank goodness I left my brolly too."
You crouch in front of your unlit shop, feeling rather helpless.
You hear a bell ring and turn to the shop next door. Out comes George and Fred, much wiser than you, with their brollies and suitcases in hand. They call your name in unison and you sigh as you come to stand.
"What's wrong, sweetie?" one of them says.
You freeze at the pet name, and he seems to catch on. He points upward, "sweetie."
You turn to your sign and feel bashful. You awkwardly chuckle, "right, I-"
"You alright?" another asks.
You look between them, "yeah," and shake your head, "no, ehhh, sorry... I... which is," you point in confusion, "which?"
"George," the one to your right raises a hand.
"Fred," the one to your left raises a hand.
"Right," you lower your head as you shake it, "sorry, I don't-"
"You'll get used to it," they say in unison.
You huff as you look back at them, both of their lips are pursed, "right..." you turn to your shop and point, "I, eh... locked myself out."
They turn to where you did.
"And I left my bag..."
They turn back to you.
"And my keys."
They make a face.
"And my brolly," you turn to you feet for a moment, "and the window in my roof open."
"Oooh," they say at once. George bares his teeth, "bad luck."
"And," Fred adds, looking up, "it looks like it's about to rain."
"I know!" you gasp, placing your hands on both sides of your head.
For a moment, the three of you stand there, soaking in your misfortune. A moment later, George turns to his brother and says, "hang on."
Fred turns to him.
"Don't we have a window in the roof, Fred?"
Fred turns to you, "that we do, George."
George turns to you too, "how are you with heights?"
"Ehhh..." your lips part, "....fine?"
With that, the twins head to the entrance of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, beckoning you over. They reopen the lights, leave their things by the door, and lead you upstairs.
"Now," George (you think) says, "I'd like to think our roof's pretty sturdy, but," he pulls out wand from his coat jacket, "I can always do a good ol' Levioso if anything goes awry."
You are comforted by the thought and nod as you make your way up. When you get to the top, you see a singular tiny window by the side of the roof and you momentarily wonder if this was a good idea.
"D'ya know what," George (you think) says, turning to his brother, "you should go down and watch her as she crosses, so in case anything happens," he points, "you can make sure she doesn't fall."
Fred (you think) shakes his head, "why me?"
"Because it was my idea to cast Levioso, Fred," George (you were right) retorts.
"Then you go down!" Fred whines.
"I'm not going down," he crosses his arms, "I just got here."
"Yeah, so did I—"
"SCISSORS, PAPER, ROCK!"
You watch to the instant match the twins have, finding one rock and scissors at hand. George grins, raising his winning fist. Fred rolls his eyes and sighs. He turns to you before going down.
George smiles and motions with his head, "come on then, I'll help you up."
He drags a box towards the window and reaches a hand out to you. You take his hand and step up, then reach for the sides of the window, pulling yourself up to get on the roof. You are glad their window was right in front of yours and that it wasn't a far walk at all.
Fred, who just got outside, catches his breath before cupping the sides of his mouth, "careful!"
You turn to him from below and call back, "trying!"
George watches you closely as you cross to the other side. He probably shouldn't think the wobble of your limbs endearing, but he does. The moment reach your window, he claps, "aye!"
You are quick to jump down, grunting as you do so. You turn around and smile at George who was already smiling back at you. He raises his hands, "you did it, sweetie!"
"I did, wheezing wizard!"
"Well," he tilts his head, "it's Wizard Wheezes but..." he shrugs, "you can just call me Georgie."
You raise your brows.
"I- I mean George."
You chuckle and purse your lips as you shake your head, "too late, Georgie."
"Now, hold on-"
"See you downstairs, Georgie!" you give a toothy grin as you close your window. You bite your lip and giggle to yourself for a moment, "cutie."
Georgie clenches his jaw as he stares the window. He sighs and kicks the box away before closing it, "damn."
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ultimadmt · 2 days ago
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Thank you so much for all the kind words— reading this really made my day to see that you enjoyed it so much!! (^u^ )
As for the way I drew “Taranza”— I was so glad to hear you loved it!! I loved how you wrote the Dream Flower as this result of his self-loathing desires, and I wanted to make sure I could visually show off how much I appreciated that aspect, so making it appear as the inside of this vision of “Sectonia” was something I wanted to do from the start!!
The same thing goes for the panel(s) where Taranza is staring at the mirror— early in the comic I made sure to show him seeing Joronia in that reflection before he finally comes to terms with moving on- and seeing himself again, giving him this extremely tired and almost saddened but also relieved expression. This was one of my favourite aspects of your work, seeing his flaws but also finally seeing himself for what he is again— it was deeply powerful to me. So it was also my top priority to include in this comic (>u<)— I’m so glad you appreciated both of those aspects :)
I had been planning to draw a comic for a while, though a few moments had been in contention for what I wanted to adapt, but after reading Chapter 18 I had been totally floored— with the descriptiveness, I could visualize everything that happened within that chapter in my mind and couldn’t resist deciding then and there what I was going to draw.
Another contender for me that I had to decide against drawing after deciding to adapt Chapter 18 was how you portrayed the relationship of Dark Meta Knight and Taranza— it had alot of nuance that I find other adaptations didn’t include. I really loved how things between them ‘resolved’ in their last interaction. They aren’t friends, but Taranza learned alot in that moment regardless.
Regarding the other characters— yes!! Your representation of the Wave 3 (+ marx and lor) gang has become as close to my heart as the characters themselves— I really hope we’ll see them all again someday in another work.
Speaking of the next work— I agree, moving to another Kirby fic directly after this would definitely be too soon. I deeply respect and appreciate that aspect of your writing, that you know when to end things perfectly!! (But selfishly as a fan it always leaves me SO desperate for more, LOL)
I can’t wait to see said other works for your other fandoms- and I will even more eagerly await the next Kirby story, for however long it takes for you to loop back around to that point, hahah. I would just love to see your interpretation continue because it may please you to hear it genuinely is what drove me back into Kirby as deeply as I have been lately (and helped inspire alot of my art)—! I have been a Kirby fan since I was very young, though after the launch of Star Allies (pre-dlc, since I think the DLC fixed alot of my problems with that game!) I had been left a little disappointed at the time, and fell out of the community pretty hard. I had always watched from the sidelines, but I had many other fixations that took priority, and I didn’t keep up with the lore. I recently had a friend who showed interest in becoming a Kirby fan, so I introduced them to some games I played and had. Playing them together reminded me why I had been so fixated years before, and after that, I fell upon Magoranza naturally, since it included my two favourite characters. I had looked up fanfiction, curious, and that was how I found your fic, which reinvigorated my hyperfixation to max capacity— I just couldn’t get over how well characterized and nuanced every character was with the way you wrote!! So I wanted to deeply thank you for AWA and your kind words for my art- it inspires me too! I can’t wait to read the finale.
Good luck with it, and whatever work you have next—!!!
"LIVE"
A short comic based on "A Wonderful Attraction' by @rainykthebroken
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i hope you enjoyed it!!! it gets a little rough around the edges towards the end-- but i hope that can be forgiven LOL. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE read the original fanfic by the wonderful Rainyk (@rainykthebroken)!!! it's a fantastic work that i couldn't hope to capture with this little comic of mine :) to rainyk: i hope this comic was able to instill in you even a fraction of the joy that i got reading not just AWA, but your other Kirby works as well!! im sorry if i couldn't fully capture it as you envisioned, drawing is hard and i had to take a few creative liberties for a comic (>n< '') !! i wanted to put this short footnote for you because as someone who is not just an artist but a writer, i find that written works are often gone less noticed / less praised, and i wanted to make sure to share mine with you!! while reading AWA, i was deeply captured by your extremely beautiful and descriptive writing style- i could almost picture the scenes you were painting down to details, and your use of metaphors throughout the story had me genuinely close to tears a couple of times LOL. your characterizations of the entire kirby cast show such a deep understanding of the characters, especially within the main 4 (+lor...) that genuinely helped shape how i view them myself. they are by and large my favourite characterizations of them period-- theyre filled with such nuance and interesting development, and most importantly you gave time for all of them to develop with the other characters, instead of just focusing on the ship!! when i first read that your native language wasn't english, i was so shocked!! you honestly could have fooled me LOL. your writing showed such a deep understanding of the language art i found myself mulling over some of my favorite lines for way too long (><''). to end this long note off, i just wanted to say that since AWA is coming to an end- for my own selfish purposes, i honestly hope you'll continue with more Kirby works, or more works in this 'timeline' even, since i fell in love with these characters so deeply i'm almost broken to have to let them go -- BWAHAH. but i also believe you have a great talent that i know you can take very far from reading what i have- so i will be excited for whatever it is you decide to write next, even if that isn't kirby!! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ i hope that you enjoyed my little work in tribute of yours!! (and that it isn't too incomprehensible because it got super scribbly LMFAO.)
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fogwitchoftheevermore · 1 year ago
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5 & 10
-xel
oh hey king. i wonder if any specific thing prompted this. anyways.
5. favourite build?
oh this is SO hard…. i think i have to be loyal and say the crastle though. ugh i miss third life builds.
10. do you have any headcannons? or theories about the season?
i don’t think i have any strong hcs yet, just cause we’ve only had two episodes. at the very least it’s nothing i haven’t already said. as for theories… y’know what yeah, sure. now’s the time for me to bring up my listeners theory. why not.
i’ll be so real this theory is mostly about liml. the secret life relation is really how i think it’ll tie into this season, though i don’t have much evidence to go off of yet. also obligatory “i don’t watch streams so if martyn talked about this in his post liml lore stream do not embarrass me”.
basically the stuff the watchers said to martyn after jimmy died in liml has. implications. the relevant section is “echos ring/for brief exchange/disruptions by/the ones estranged/tread careful sound/for if we met/our gaze would bring/untimely deaf”. the first time i heard that part i didn’t really think much of it and assumed “sound” was just a weird name for martyn, but i’ve realized that, combined with the fact that the watchers don’t talk to martyn at the end of the series but the listeners do, they’re almost certainly talking to the listeners there. the implication seems to be that the listeners have managed to cut the watchers off from martyn for whatever reason. this, combined with how strikingly similar their message at the end of liml is to their message at the end of evos, makes everything feel Real Weird. like yeah ok the watchers are bad but. what do you gain from cutting him off listeners. what do you want here. (i have never quite trusted the listeners and this is something martyn has validated- the listeners are not good just because they are against the watchers. the enemy of my enemy is not inherently my friend.)
as for how this ties into secret life? i think it’s possible that we straight up don’t hear from the watchers this season. it’s DEFINITELY not off the table, but… idk i think we might be in the listener zone for a while. and idk if that’s a good thing.
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parksrway · 1 year ago
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JUST SAW THE FNAF MOVIE LIFE IS AWESOME AND WORTH LIVING
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fingertipsmp3 · 6 months ago
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Ughhhhhhh I hate writing and I hate not writing and I hate myself
#nearly bought a digital typewriter today. actually i DID buy a digital typewriter today. officially yes i have bought a digital typewriter.#the money for the digital typewriter has left my account but i have emailed them to cancel the order because i can't in good faith buy#a digital typewriter when i don't fucking WRITE#i thought it might help me get back into it. distraction free and while allowing me to not judge my own writing#and be continuously editing while i write and going 'i'm crap i'm crap i'm crap no one will ever read this and if they do they will think#that i'm garbage and that i should feel bad etc etc etc'#but it's too expensive and i have the feeling i wouldn't even like or use the thing once i got it#because the IDEAS! the ideas aren't coming to me. or rather they are but none of them seem to stick#i feel underconfident in writing any of them#and then i have old projects that i've always wanted to get back to like the tennis romance thing but SO much has changed since i first#started drafting it. like i don't even know if i like the main couple anymore. i kind of want to put both of them with different OCs of min#but it'd switch up the WHOLE story if i had a different cast#in fact most of the problem lies in the fact that i have this long-running bedtime story i tell myself every night with lore#and a massive cast of characters that i switch out depending on who i'm most interested in right now and every so often i incorporate new#themes and ideas and motifs and plot points sometimes based on media i've been watching because it's MY bedtime story and it doesn't matter#if i plagiarise in my own brain. but then obviously i can't plagiarise in real life#and none of my bedtime stories are GOING anywhere. sometimes i only get through a scene or two before i fall asleep#all of which means my bedtime story is not so much a sweeping epic novel but a sitcom with way too many characters#most of which are werewolves to be honest and sometimes for my own wish fulfilment one of them will walk out of my head#and take care of my problems for me by lending me £1million or murdering my best friend's ex. in my mind obviously#so it's like. it's a case of getting in there and annexing off the stuff i think i can use#it's like yeah i've definitely written several romance novels in my head in the process of this but does it matter if they're IN my HEAD#to be honest i feel like my main strength is in creating characters. like i have this one family of werewolves i've been slowly but surely#adding members to since i was like 16. maybe younger? no yeah i think i made the first one when i was 12#they're compelling to ME anyway. i care about them. it's just PLOTS. i can't plot#if a book could just be a lot of dialogue and sex scenes and silly moments and character studies i'd be alright#i also can't describe settings. don't ask me to because i can't#and now i'm just annoyed with myself because i sat down at my laptop to try to write and instead i'm here complaining about how i don't wri#and if i had the digital typewriter... i mean i'd probably still be doing this i'd just no longer have £300#i don't have the £300 anyway. i hope to christ they refund my card i'm a fucking idiot
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i just calculated and turns out i play splatoon for over a third of my lifespan.
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arolesbianism · 6 months ago
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Some more concept designs for my newest iterator ocs! In order we have Endless Grains of Sand (she/her), Deep Coated Mist (she/her), Purity Preserved (he/they), and Twisted Orbit (he/they/she). This is also in order from oldest to youngest, Sand and Mist are both Very old
(Synchronized Light is also a part of the group, they’re the very youngest)
#keese draws#rain world#rain world oc#iterator oc#rain world iterator#rw iterator#I’m considering adding one more member to the group but I’m not sure yet#I kind of wanna make someone to be the token just some guy of their local group since currently they’re a bunch of freaks and also sand#sand doesn’t count as the normal one though because she’s absolutely ancient and also in old woman love with mist#I need some just completely unremarkable guy to balance out these guys#but yeah real brief summary these guys are unique because they basically all recycle mist’s water output until it makes it’s way back to th#ocean that sand draws from and filters to send back to mist#mist is located on the peak of a very large mountain and is wildly innificent due to her being a rly rly old model so the steam she#produces condenses and flows down the mountainous area she’s located in#and that leaves to there being enough water in the vast rivers and lakes she ended up producing to be used for several other iterators#newer iterators mostly but purity is a gen 2 iterator so he’s not even as efficient as the newer models mist is just that inefficient#mist is also easily the biggest of her local group with synch and light being in second#personality wise sand is very logical and blunt but not mean or aggressive more so just very earnest#she still comes across as distant but that’s mostly just because she believes it’s important to not influence those around her too much#mist on the other hand is a lot lore grumpy and judgementsl#she takes great pride in her history and has very strong beliefs about how things should be gone about and it frustrates her when others#disregard these ideas especially when it comes to her younger neighbors who mostly very much do not respect her#purity is very full of himself and has been obsessed with the idea of being the first to produce a genuine triple affirmative#he ofc was pissed as hell when the sliver incident happened and is desperate to find a way to rewrite that bit of history in his favor#and orbit is very detached and cold towards most of those around her but will love bomb the hell out of anyone she takes a liking to#orbit used to have a sort of girlfriend who was an ancient who she used to watch paint#and eventually said ancient got arrested and sentenced to doing hard labor for a time and orbit pulled some strings to get her stationed to#do cleaning and repairs for their superstructure so that the two could meet in person#but things got real messy and moment (the ancient) ended up incredibly miserable and desperate for an escape before she ended up dying in#a void fluid pipe rupture incident leaving orbit in shambles
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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 3 months ago
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FIREFLIES NEVER CAME ; SATORU GOJO
synopsis; your seat is close to the heater. that’s the only reason gojo comes there to warm up.
word count; 4.2k
contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, teen!satoru, set in a canon au, mutual pining, fluff, a little bittersweet (melancholic winter vibes <3), introvert/extrovert, reader is antisocial and dense as a brick (black cat vibes :3), also kind of self-deprecating, satoru is very shoujo manga coded, just lots of puppy love!! feat. wingman!suguru <3
a/n; this wasn’t meant to be a fic …… it was gonna be really short and sweet ……… (T_T) anyway i am very fond of this reader/character dynamic so i hope you enjoy reading abt my emotionally stunted kids 🫶 biggest mwah in the world dedicated to professor logan (@staryukis) for teaching me about physics so i could find a loophole in satoru’s infinity :3c all for the sake of lore-accurate (kinda) fluff <3
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”what are you listening to?”
your seat is close to the heater. 
it was nothing but a lucky draw, really. yaga-sensei was organizing the desks when you transferred, and so he gave you the first choice; one you had no trouble making, latching on to the chair in the very back, right by the window, right by the sole heater of the room. vital for surviving your chilly winter classes. 
so there you sit. a warmth sneaks through your fuzzy socks, tends to your restless legs. your feet tap and tap, on the cold floorboards, in rhythm with your never-ending thoughts, spinning like a planet in orbit.
through the fogged-up, frosted glass of the window to your left, you observe the world. headphones covering your ears, safe and snug, muffling all noise. you watch as snow falls, wholly entranced, eyes stuck on the icy snowflakes descending from the wool-gray sky — blanketing the frostbitten landscape of the courtyard. it’s pretty, all those skeletal trees, glittering and gleaming like they have something to say. sometimes they look like stars.
”… hey. did you hear me?”
gojo is being particularly chatty, today.
out of the corner of your eye, you see him wave his hand right in front of your face. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s rude; he must be used to all eyes being on him, from the moment he speaks.
with a flutter of your lashes, you lift your weary head. meeting his gaze, the blurry shine of your own visage, reflected in his circle-frame glasses. a soft tilt of his head, and then his lips are twitching upwards, just barely, snowy strands gliding across his forehead and falling over his face. like an excited puppy.
”what are you listening to?”
you read the words off his lips, all sound muffled by your headphones. quick to lift one of your hands, pulling one of the heavy ear cushions away — letting all white noise in the room flood your senses. the snarls of the wind outside, ieiri’s laughter, the scribbling of geto’s pen against paper. 
it’s overwhelming, but a small price to pay. his voice is softer than usual, during moments like these; there’s a pleasant lull to it.
gojo tips his head to the right, still awaiting your response. all you can do is stare, watching your own reflection, fingers gripping onto the edge of your desk. as if seeking to ground yourself.
with a spoonful of hesitance, you part your lips.
”… do you like music?”
the words seep out into the air, a softly exhaled breath. gojo watches you, silently, for just a moment.
then he gives you a shrug.
”i guess?” he hums, shifting his weight from one foot to another — hand slipping into the pocket of his uniform. ”that’s more suguru’s thing.”
ah.
your mouth forms around the syllable, as if responding, but not making any sound. gaze fleeing from his glasses, crumbling under their weight, straying towards the frosted window to your left. safe, familiar, rotting trees and twitching branches. snow just as pure as the boy in front of you.
silence overtakes you both, once more. 
”... not gonna answer?” he asks, with another tilt of his head, absently rocking side to side as he lets out an exhale. ”is it a secret, or something?”
(it is, you think. but you can’t say it out loud.)
before you can part your lips again, the classroom door slides open — and you know it’s yaga-sensei just by the way his feet hit the floorboards, the decisive weight behind every step. you know even before he’s telling you to get back to your seats. 
on cue, gojo stands up straighter, shooting you another glance. bright-eyed, easy-going, every star in the sky leaping out from the glimpse you get of his eyes when he angles his body. two blue pools, flecked with white, like frozen puddles in the street. 
and then he’s strolling away.
gojo leaves, and you take off your headphones; stretching your legs underneath the desk. reaching for your ballpoint pencil, flipping open your textbook, and indulging in sleepy blinks, as yaga begins to drone on and on. you stifle a yawn with the sleeve of your blazer, resting your jaw on the heel of your palm. eyes inevitably straying towards a head of white hair.
but your name is called before you can get lost in your daydreams. 
”page 27, from the top.”
your chair scrapes against the floorboards, as you sluggishly stand up. holding onto your textbook, flipping the pages until you land on the correct passage. with shaky hands, not enough to notice, you read out loud; voice controlled, almost monotone. all you can think is that you feel his frost-clad eyes on you, from the row straight ahead.
but you continue to speak. you speak until you reach the end of the page, until you’re allowed to take your seat again, happy to feel the warmth of the heater radiate against your legs. it’s this warmth that’s important, the most important thing of all.
without it, gojo wouldn’t bother to stop by your desk.
nearly every recess, as soon as yaga leaves the classroom, he’s waltzing over — leaning against the wall, stretching his arms out, purring contentedly as heat spreads throughout his body. you think he must run cold. chatting with you, just to pass the time, just until your teacher comes back. just to warm up.
then he’s leaving, again.
that’s all it is. a cold boy, and a heater by your desk — a conversation that otherwise wouldn’t have occured. even the strongest is vulnerable to changes in temperature, you suppose.
though if warmth is all that binds him to you, it’s bound to dwindle away.
(you’re sure he’ll stop as soon as spring comes.)
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the next day, gojo is nowhere to be seen. you saw yaga-sensei drag him out of the classroom this morning; something about a clan meeting, something you weren’t paying attention to.
but now you wish you had.
(it’s quiet, without him around. eerily so.)
with nothing to lose, and nothing else to do — you push your chair away from your desk, and walk up to your classmate, a question on your mind.
”… music? are you looking for recommendations?”
you nod. 
geto blinks. caught off guard, you’re sure, surprised that you’d approach him without any prior coaxing. he’s usually the one striking up a conversation with you, like a responsible class president, making sure the weird kid doesn’t feel left out. you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize that it’s patronizing.
”hmm... well, that depends.” he gives you a smile, soft around the edges. it never feels as genuine as gojo’s, but it’s calming. ”what kind of music do you usually listen to?”
you glance down at the floor. bundling up the cuffs of your uniform, fingers clawing softly at the fabric, bottom lip trapped between two sets of teeth.
”… what kind of music does gojo like?”
silence. your words are barely spoken, just above a whisper, just like always, but geto picks up on them anyway. you can tell he does, can feel the weight of his keen eyes on your face. analytical.
then he parts his lips.
”… ohhh.” a low hum, ripe with meaning, buzzing at the bottom of his throat. the corners of his lips quirk up into a knowing smile. ”i see.”
heat rushes to your cheeks, blossoms under your skin. if he notices, he’s even more composed than you thought he was, because he doesn’t mention it. only continues to speak, in that soothing voice, crossing his arms in silent thought.
”hmm…” you follow his gaze, out towards the window, the same webs of frost as always. it’s not snowing, but you still can’t see the blue of the sky. ”i’ve never seen him listen to music before, so i wouldn’t know.”
you can’t help but deflate, at that.
geto only smiles. exhaling, through his nose, mildly humoured — though he’s good at hiding his amusement. ”… what do you think that means?”
a blink. your lashes flutter, as you gaze up at him. 
”… huh?”
”satoru doesn’t listen to music, but he wants to know what you’re listening to.” he says the words almost coachingly, like he’s listing off a string of numbers. you realize he must have been listening in on your conversation, but it doesn’t bother you nearly as much as his tone. ”what do you think that means?”
(you haven’t got a clue.)
geto lets out a chuckle, laced with mirth, no longer trying to hide it. paired with a soft shake of his head, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes. ”why do you want to know about his taste in music, then?”
(… that’s a good question.)
he seems to notice your hesitance, your apprehension, the way your teeth seek to trap your bottom lip; always the victim of your muddled mind. you know the answer, of course you do — but it isn’t something you want others knowing. 
thankfully, geto breaks the silence for you.
”i don’t think you need to try so hard, when it comes to him.” his voice is soft, almost sincere, something warmer than usual. glancing away when you meet his eyes. ”… he isn’t worth the effort, anyway.”
but that’s where he’s wrong.
satoru gojo is a special case. a special person. in the orbit of your life, there’s no star you’d rather keep — no one quite as ripe with colour. 
geto couldn’t possibly understand, because gojo is always with him — always orbiting around him. he always will, until you graduate, probably even beyond that. geto has him. they’re the strongest, a pair, always matching their steps to one another. but you only have these quiet days, these chilly classes in between never-ending missions — and that’s all.
when the frost outside the window thaws, gojo will surely stop visiting your desk. your lonely little world. 
that’s exactly why — you need to find a song. if you just teach him about something wonderful enough, if you can give him something other than warmth…
(… maybe he’ll stay with you even after spring comes.)
”next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?” 
geto’s suggestion breaks you out of your thoughts. when you raise your head, to meet the warm pools of amber in his eyes, he gives you a smile. there’s nothing patronizing about the way he’s looking at you now — if anything, you think it may even be slightly fond, but you can never tell what he’s actually feeling. he’s frightening, like that, always a mirror to his circumstances. a chameleon, tilting his head at you.
… though you can’t help but fall victim to the kindness in his eyes. the velveteen purr of his voice.
”i’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”
a nervous pit opens up in your chest, an empty space that gnaws incessantly at your heart. will he?, you want to ask, but it feels like the words are made out of lead. you can’t get them out of your throat.
”… okay,” is all you end up whispering, a soft lull of your tongue. ”i’ll try… thank you.”
geto rewards you with a full smile.
”don’t mention it.”
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spring is closer than you thought.
it’s all you can think, when you step onto the pavement, when you feel the morning air gnaw at your frostbitten cheeks. it’s freezing, it’s winter, but the signs of changing seasons are still there — a lonesome snowdrop, the crackle of an icy puddle beneath your feet. the frost is beginning to thaw. 
in a month or so, spring will be here — there’s no stopping it.
”did you bring your card?”
your headphones rest around your neck, allowing you to listen in on your classmates' conversation. all four of you are together, for once, all first-years, walking towards the nearest konbini — at gojo’s insistence. 
it’s been a week since you had that talk with geto, but you still haven’t made any progress with him.
”huh? was i supposed to?”
”… are you kidding me?”
you glance up at the pair. always walking just a little bit ahead, their tall statures obscuring the view in front of you; shoko lags behind, with lazy steps, a trail of tobacco drifting out into the crispy air. all while snowflakes fall from the sky, gently, landing in your hair, on your shoulders, melting on the inside of your palm when you hold it out to catch them. watching as they turn into droplets of water, slip through the gaps between your fingers. 
someone taps your shoulder.
geto has snowflakes stuck in his hair. they’re melting, in the strands of ink-black framing his face, matching the colour of the thick polo jacket he’s wearing. a bright red scarf is tied around his throat, and there’s a weighty look in his eyes — something telling.
a silent cue.
he falls back, slowly but surely, into ieiri’s lazy pace. not before murmuring something unintelligible to gojo, and shooting you a wink — one that makes you frown, confused, a low heat blooming at the base of your spine and crawling up your neck.
and then you realize what he’s done.
gojo is looking right at you, through the black glass of his specs. only wearing a baseball jacket, no gloves or scarves to keep him warm, despite the harsh bite of the open air. for a guy who runs cold, he must not put much thought into his clothing. 
more importantly…
it’s just the two of you, now.
you blink at him, silent as a mouse. it only takes a moment for him to start moving, for you to follow, taking your place beside him while staring right ahead. if he’s bothered by geto slinking away, he doesn’t show it — only continues to walk.
”… that’s so unfair.”
gojo’s voice breaks the silence. you turn your head to gaze at him, the way his lips wrap around the vowels, haphazardly hanging onto every word he speaks.
”just ’cause i have clan money,” he kicks at a pebble on the side of the road, wisps of white hair swaying with a shake of his head, ”suguru thinks i should pay for our snacks. isn’t that unfair?”
you hesitate. then you nod along, absently.
he seems to take that as a yes, because it makes him brighten — as if gleaming with your approval, standing a little straighter, puffing out his chest with an exhale that turns into white smoke.
”right? they only give it to me because they want me to come back to kyoto, anyway…” he trails off, holding the tip of his tongue between his lips. ”… not that it matters. anyway, i just think he’s oppressive.”
”… mm.”
from this angle, you can see a sliver of his eyes. can see the way he steals a glance at you, without even turning his head — hands slipping into his pockets. there’s a moment of silence, until he’s parting his lips again. 
”… i can buy some for you, though.” 
(you barely pick up on the words, spoken almost in a whisper — as if an afterthought.)
he clears his throat.
”… if you don’t have the money, i mean.”
you can’t help but blink, at that — lashes fluttering in rapid succession, wondering if you heard him correctly. he doesn’t seem keen on elaborating, though. walking on, ignoring all snowflakes descending from the sky, eager to nuzzle in between his locks. his infinity keeps them out. 
”… why?”
it’s all you can say. all you can verbalize.
(in a story like this, why would the brightest star of all orbit around someone like you?)
gojo gives you another glance. his iris cuts into your skin, observes you on what you’re sure must be a molecular level. he lets silence linger, for a moment, tipping his head back to look up at the sky.
gray, and more gray. flecks of white. you’d see the same thing he does. 
”hmm…” he lets out a breath, head falling forward again, snowy strands ghosting against the skin of his forehead. ”let’s call it a trade.”
another series of blinks. 
gojo turns towards you, then — a fresh grin blooming on his lips. white teeth, pink gums. it makes him look boyish, innocent, just another city boy with too much time on his hands.
”i buy you snacks — and you tell me what music you’re always listening to.” he bends his body forward, tilts his head at the same time, all lanky and charming, like a big cat. ”deal?”
you stay silent.
he’s looking at your headphones, still left neglected around your neck. your gaze falls down to the icy concrete, the thin layer of frost, waiting to be melted by the first sunrays of spring. whenever that will be. 
geto and shoko are still behind you — you can hear their low, muffled chatter, smell the remnants of tobacco in the air. and you swear you can practically hear geto’s words, echoing through your head.
(why do you think that is?)
gojo is still looking at you. expectantly, lips curled up into a lazy smile. he’s waiting, you know he is, and you also know he isn’t very good at that. you know a lot of things — what you don’t know is what to say. you don’t know if you can believe in whatever geto was insinuating, don’t know if you can grapple with your own longing to do so. 
(next time, why don’t you say what’s on your mind?)
geto doesn’t get it. he doesn’t know what your feelings towards gojo truly look like. doesn’t know that what’s on your mind when he’s around is always something horrifically embarrassing. something like, i want to know more about you, or maybe i wish i could tell you more about me. something awfully cheesy, like — i’m jealous of how bright you shine, but i can’t help but like you anyway. 
if i become your friend, would it be okay to say i understand your loneliness? that i notice it, even just by a fraction?
would that be okay with you?
(words that should be left unspoken.)
”… well, it’s not like you have to.” gojo exhales, again, the words a heavy weight seeping past his throat. his shoulders slump, as he turns forward, fingers trailing up to scratch at the back of his neck. 
all you can think is that he’s getting ready to leave. that nothing will change, at this rate, that spring will wash winter away. that geto should be more direct with his advice, and that if it’s not the music itself that gojo is interested in knowing more about, then surely —
” — i don’t listen to anything.”
gojo stills. the words have flown past your lips before you can reach out and grasp them, slicing through the open air.
he spins around, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose at the sudden motion, exposing his widened eyes. those white lashes, fluttering softly, like a pair of doves eager to get above ground. you grip onto the insides of your pockets, warm and cozy against your freezing hands — it grounds you, keeps you tethered down to earth, down to him. 
”music,” you continue, sputtering slightly, as if your lungs don’t quite know how to work under pressure. winter air seeps into your windpipe, cuts the skin there. ”i don’t listen to music.”
you lift your hands, fingers curling around the soft earmuffs wrapped around your neck, hesitantly meeting gojo’s gaze — an overlapping sequence, blanketing his view. then you’re gazing down. 
”it’s just… comforting,” you try to explain, speaking softly. ”to wear them. white noise.. tires me out, so…”
the sentence trails off, unfinished. you feel silly. silly for saying anything at all, for building it up so much. silly for being the way that you are.
but when you look up at gojo, he’s brightened like a star.
white teeth, pink gums, that breathtakingly boyish grin. his blue eyes gleam with colour, almost spilling over the corners, like watercolour paint on a too-small canvas. he tilts his head, looking at you carefully, as if truly seeing you for the first time; absently swaying side to side. 
if he had a tail, you’re sure it’d be wagging.  
”i see!”
a silent breath spills into the air. your lips part, but no sound comes out, only vapour; heart pumping blood through your writhing veins, warming you up from the inside, a co-conspirator to the heat blooming in your cheeks. gojo continues to speak.
”i guess that counts,” he nods, crossing his arms with a satisfied hum. ”alright. i’ll get you any snacks you want! you can be greedy, it’s okay.”
a murmur of thanks escapes you, although you’d like to tell him there’s no need. something tells you denying him this would be like taking another step backwards, in this budding connection between you.
(… if you can even call it that.)
geto and ieiri catch up to your unmoving figures, finally, and only then does gojo spin on his heel and pick up his previous pace. calling back to you over his shoulder, a smile you can’t see but still hear.
”just don’t give any of it to those two, yeah?”
”cheapskate,” ieiri calls back, lone cigarette hanging between her lips. geto lets out something like a chuckle, his shoulder brushing up against yours.
you watch gojo’s back as he moves forward. unbothered, untethered. you think of him a snowflake in the breeze.
spring is almost here, now. it’s a bittersweet feeling, to know your conversations during recess will surely dwindle out — but at least you’ll have had this. one normal conversation, the knowledge that he was curious about you, even if you may just be the classmate by the heater in his eyes.
you’re too cold to keep him warm all on your own, so there’s no helping it. you’re willing to accept that some stars only show from the surface during winter. 
you’re willing to accept this. it aches, a little, but you’ll be okay. 
”i’ll take it things went well, then?”
geto is wearing his signature smile, when you look up at him. an expression of carefully concealed composure, lips curled up, but a knowing look in his eyes — something that borders on teasing.
you give him a nod, a bow of your head, to silently convey your appreciation. chameleon or not, you don’t really mind his ways. it’s hard to fake the warmth in his voice, when he speaks.
”i’m glad.”
the two of you watch gojo’s back, like birds gazing out at a body of water. silence lingers.
”won’t that moron get cold?”
ieiri’s voice cuts through the mold of your mind, low and gravelly, right beside you. she’s pointing towards gojo — the flimsy jacket he’s wearing. 
you’re wondering the same thing.
geto casts her a glance over your head, before gazing down at you, seemingly noticing your curiosity. he lets out a low hum; reaching a hand out to brush away the snowflakes on his shoulders. 
”temperature,” he begins, slipping his hands into his pockets; that familiar coaching tone to his voice, purposefully slow. ”is just a measure of atoms in rapid motion.”
you tilt your head, in tandem with ieiri — looking to your classmate for further elaboration. he seems to enjoy your confusion, lips curling up just a bit. gojo calls out to you, in the distance, waving both his hands, and geto returns it with a wave of his own.
an amber eye flicks towards you, an explanation on his tongue. ”his infinity can regulate that motion.”
… another tilt of your head.
geto lets out an amused breath. it scatters out into the air, a cloud of smoke, almost a chuckle.
”basically…” he sighs. ”he does just fine, in the cold. don’t worry about it. he’ll keep himself warm.”
ieiri mutters something, beneath her breath, something like you could have just said no, but you don’t really hear it. you think your heart must have climbed up, somehow; got caught in your windpipe. 
ah.
gojo can keep himself warm.
the thought spins inside your mind, over and over, a realization that makes your inner palms feel clammy. stupid, silly, this pitter-patter of your heartbeat. but what else could it mean? if the cold doesn’t bother him, if he doesn’t run cold, then…
(he wouldn’t need it. he wouldn’t need it here, wouldn’t need it during recess, within the chilly walls of your classroom. he wouldn’t need it to stay warm.
gojo isn’t after your heater. if that’s true, then…)
you bury your nose in the soft wool of your scarf. breathing in the fading scent, vanilla and cinnamon, grounding you to earth, lingering in your nostrils. distracting you from the rush of warmth, that blooms in the frostbitten apples of your cheeks. 
as if sensing your thoughts, or maybe just noticing your embarrassed expression, geto laughs — soft and breathy, shoulders shaking to your left. you hear it, only nuzzling deeper into the comfort of your scarf. feeling your heartbeat spin out of orbit.
in the distance, gojo continues to wave, yelling out something unintelligible. you could mistake him for a star.
spring is almost here, now. in just a month or so, it’ll be at your doorstep — waltzing right in. 
(but you aren’t worried.)
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teddypines · 5 months ago
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Thunderstorm
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Sumary: Cute moment with Batmom!reader and Damian who is afraid of thunderstorm.
Batmom!reader x Damain, Fem!reader (Use of she/her pronounce)
Note: I don't know Batman lore like i know mcu lore. Everything i know is from the cartoon's i watched as a kid and the fanfic's and webtoon i read. So if somthings are out of charachter, i'm sorry. Also the other boy's live at home i don't care if it isn't canon.
Art/picture is from Pintrest, credits go to whoever made it.
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Damian always acted like he was an adult, because in his eyes he thought he was, even when Y/N knew the boy was far from being an adult. She always tried to give him small moments that normal kids his age had in an attempt to make up for the things Talia had done in the past. This included letting him come to her if he needed, no matter the time or place.
It was just a normal Friday night in the Wayne household. Y/N was cuddled up to Bruce’s side on the couch. Jason and Dick to her right both bickering about which guy the girl on tv would end up with. Tim was curled up in his blanket on the chair, tiredly typing away on his laptop and Damian was trying to stay close to Bruce’s side but didn’t want to make it obvious that he wanted to cuddle. The rain outside made for a cozy feel for the whole moment, it made Y/N happy. The kids and Bruce are safe at home with her and not out on patrol or fighting crime. 
Y/N sighed as the tv show Jason and Dick were watching was finally over. So she took the remote and quickly turned the channels to look at the weather forecast. “Owh, boy looks like we are going to have a thunderstorm tonight. Good thing I don't have to worry about you all being out.” Y/N said before switching channels again. The fact that it was going to storm didn’t really bother Bruce or the boy’s. Except for Damian, he was stressed internally, but he didn’t want his brothers to know. They would probably laugh if they knew he was scared of a thunderstorm. Y/N looked over at Damian. “Everything okay, Dami?” She asked, the troubled look on Damian’s face made her worry. “Y-yes, I'm fine. Nothing to worry about, just tired.” Damian rambled back at Y/N. 
“I think I might go to bed too,” Tim said after Jason left the living room. He closed his laptop and wiggled out of his blanket. He made his way over to Y/N and Bruce, Y/N already opening her arms for Tim. “Night night, Pumpkin” Y/N said to Tim when he was safely in her arms. “Goodnight, momma. Night, dad. Love you” Tim answered, staying in Y/N’s arms for a little while. “We love you too, Pumpkin” Y/N said in between kisses she placed on Tim’s head. Bruce wrapped his arm around Tim too, but only for a moment. “Now off to bed, Pumpkin, don’t want you to fall asleep here again” Y/N said which made Tim reluctantly pull away. Soon After Dick said his goodnights too and left the living room with Tim. 
“I bet little Dami is just scared of the thunderstorm.” Jason commented as he leaned back against the couch, a small smirk spread across his face. "No! I am not scared!” Damian yepped back at Jason, he pouted a bit after. Bruce held back a small laugh at Damian’s pouty face which earned him a jab in the side form Y/N.
“Don’t tease your brother like that, Jay bird and Dami, it's okay if you're scared of thunderstorms” Y/N said hoping to resolve the small situation. Jason grumbled a bit before getting off the couch. "Fine! I'm off to bed.” He wanted to quickly disappear, but Y/N didn’t let him. “Night night, Jay bird” She said with a smile. Jason groaned and quickly hugged her. “Night mom” He whispered to Y/N.
“You should go to bed soon too, Dami, and if the storm scares you it’s okay to come to us. We’ll protect you from the storm” Y/N said in an attempt to sooth Damian’s worry about the upcoming thunderstorm. She reached over Bruce and gently ran a hand over Damian’s head. “I’ll be fine, no need to worry” Damian answered a bit distant. He didn’t want Y/N (or Bruce) to worry about him. “Just know we’re there when you do need us” Bruce said to Damian in a stern but reassuring way. Damain just nodded his head and pulled off the couch. “I’ll be fine, night”
It did upset Y/N just a bit that Damian didn’t get his usual good night hug, but she knew he would be by her side the moment the thunder storm started. Bruce pulled Y/N on top of him and kissed her cheek. “He’ll be back, love” 
<----------------------------------------------------------------------->
The thunderstorm started around 1:30 AM, just when Y/N found a comfy position next to Bruce. The thunder wasn’t as bad in the beginning, but got worse after 20 minutes. After one particular loud thunder Y/N awoke to the weight shifting on the bed. She opened her eyes and was met with a very scared Damian. “Umi? C-can i stay with you and… and dad?” Damian stuttered through his tears. "Always, baby” Y/N answered. She pulled away from Bruce’s side and turned over so Damian could cuddle against her. “I see you brought mister Moo” Y/N pointed at the plush cow in Damian’s arms. “Maybe…” He whispered, busying himself with finding the best way to lay next to Y/N. Wanting to be as close to her as he could. He slowly closed his eyes but flinched when another thunder strike was heard. 
“Shhh, it’s okay Dami, you're safe in bed with us. No need to be scared, Thor is just a bit extra mad at Loki tonight.” Y/N whispered to Damian. a reassuring hand was placed on Damian’s back. Damian shifted his head to look up at Y/N. “What?” Y/N laughed a bit. “You heard me. Thor is mad at Loki, that’s why the thunder is so loud tonight. Loki probably stabbed him again or tricked him by being a cute snake.” Y/N explained as Damian listened. He knew that what Y/N said was just based on stories and myths, but he liked it. Made the thunderstorm less scary. “Really? Why would Loki do that?” He asked. “Well, Loki really likes attention and sometimes he thinks he doesn’t get enough of it, so he asks for attention. But he does it in the only way he knows how, by being a little shit head and stabbing Thor or tricking the others.” Y/N explained. Bruce groaned a bit as he heard Y/N talk. He turned over and saw Damian hiding against her. 
“Or Thor just stubbed his toe.” Bruce added while propping his arm underneath his head. “Yes, that is possible too” Y/N answered with a small nod of her head. Damian laughed a bit and yawned. “I like that one better, big oof stubbing his toe.”
“Yeah, see now the thunder isn’t so bad is it?” Y/N asked as she yawned as well. Damian only nodded his head in answer. The storm outside was still going on, but Thor just stubbed his toe so that made the thunder more understandable. It was a story, but the story helped Damian feel less scared. 
“Alright, love you” Y/N promised before drifting off to sleep. Bruce smiled at the two. He placed gentle kisses on both their heads before falling asleep as well.
Y/N smiled as she watched Damian fall asleep against her. She turned her head to look at Bruce. “Out like a light,” She said. Bruce smiled and tried to lay back down next to Y/N. “Yeah, but he’s taking all of the comfy spots on the bed” Y/N rolled her eyes and held out her hand for Bruce to hold. “Tomorrow night you can sleep against me again.” Y/N reassured Bruce while he held onto her hand. “Fine, but I expect extra cuddles then!”
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rxmye · 6 months ago
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" 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 "
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𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 — For so long, he found art in his surroundings, nature was his muse . . who would've thought that he'd be able to find another muse, within you.
gender neutral reader / yandere oc x reader / obsessive / unhealthy themes / I guess the reader is his 'hater' / perfectionist yandere / kind of egotistic yandere / he has a praise kink frfr / maybe a bit self centered . . / kind of unedited / also might appeal to ppl with a savior complex
masterlist | requesting rules | character info . . . a/n: I feel like Lore takes up a good chunk of this fic, but enjoy . . also might be one of my longest fics . .
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He was a calming presence, and a thoughtful friend to all he called his own. Elegance took a human form, in Xavier Wilson—A beautiful work of art indeed . . Born presenting a talent that could rival many others in the industry.
From a young age, Xavier presented himself as a man of the arts, often drawing out vivid tapestries of his dreams or memories. He would often lose himself in the pages of his notebook, scribbling away with intricate drawings and stories, his mind was his own magnum opus.
However—people was never his strong suit. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, surely if he was as magnificent as those around him expressed, he'd most certainly be able to recreate the portraits of those around him?—But no, none of his portraits could compare to his various other works.
As he got a bit older, his mother decided to enroll him in classes that could help expand his talents, which ranged from various music lessons, theater (didn't end well), art history—etc . . .
Xavier let out a breathy sigh, staring at the keys of the grand piano absentmindedly—his gloved fingers gently glide over the keys, tired would be the best way to describe him as of right now—his professor had left an hour ago, yet Xavier couldn't find it in himself to move.
Truth be told, Xavier wasn't a fan of music, he preferred quiet solitude—and though he had long since gotten used to the sound of the piano, violin, and any of the other ridiculous instruments his mother was so keen on getting him to play—he still preferred the silence over all.
Over the course of time, Xavier disinterest towards music dimmed—Alongside his distaste towards instruments . . He figured the reason he disliked it so much was due to his inability to play as perfectly as his professor . . Xavier was a perfectionist, and anything he couldn't perfect was simply 'wrong' in his eyes, and as he reached his teen years, he accepted that fact wholeheartedly.
Xavier stood still, as his mother fixed his tie for him—he could do it himself but he let her enjoy this moment, she always disliked watching her son 'grow up so fast'—"are you nervous?", she asked softly, gently holding his hands, smiling so brightly.
'Am I nervous?—' he thought, clearly not. He felt calm, neutral even. It was his first big show, yet internally he knew that things would end well for him, he could feel it. He's always been lucky, in fact his father's nickname for him as a child was quite literally 'Puer aureus' which translated to 'the golden boy' from Latin.
He clicked his tongue, a common habit of his—especially when he wasn't being exactly truthful—he paused for a moment as if to think, then he smiled at his mother, "Just a bit, but I'll be fine" he spoke calmly, gently squeezing her hand to reassure her. "Don't worry, I've prepared well for this . . Haven't I?"
Praise, he adored praise, and that day he received quite a lot of it—not just from his parents, or acquaintances . . .—but crowds of people. Honestly, it stroked his ego, quite a bit . .
By seventeen years of age, Xavier's talent was known worldwide, his rise to fame quite massive and fast . . He had to attend class, while also hosting live performances and art galleries. (such a struggle, really . . .)
University admissions were coming around, and most of his friends had chosen what schools they plan on applying to—what path they plan on going into—what school they hope to go to the most, the conversation was an eye opener and yet it all felt so bitter.
Xavier tapped his pen on the table, zoning out from the conversation his friends were having . . only to zone back in when Neva spoke, "—so Xavier, have you decided where you'll be applying too . . ? I'm sure you'll get in."
He clicked his tongue in response, closing his eyes absentmindedly as he spoke, "To be honest, not really . . probably something arts related?", Xavier was about to speak up again but stopped himself, starring down at the table, a sigh escaping his lips.
"That seems like a waste of money", he looked up, starring at Oliver with questioning eyes, and Oliver quickly explained himself, "Art school is great and all—But it won't really make much of a difference for you, in fact the rules could restrict your talent . . It could be better for you to just try something new? You're good in school a degree outside of your comfort zone may be something good for you!"
He hated that his friend was right, he hated being wrong. He prided himself for always knowing what was best for himself and his abilities, and in a spur of pettiness he found himself taking art anyway, trying to prove his friend wrong . . even though he was well aware his intentions were pure in all ways.
Xavier had done well in his courses so far, and with his fame, he was breezing through classes—and yet, when the topics of portraits came up . . he found all that floating out the window.
None of the models they had for class, felt right—none of the art he did, felt authentic . . felt like himself, when it came to art, Xavier took everyone to paradise, his art felt like peace . . his art was calm . . his music was soft, lulling almost . .
Yet now, as he stared at his canvas, covered in mixed harsh colours, a vibrant mess of paint, his brushes wrecked, paint dripping from the easel . . It felt like anything but calm.
And that's when he dropped out, a question to his perfection would wreck the fragile image of himself he had created in his mind, a man so perfect and lucky in his own right a humbling experience like that was to never see the light of day.
Xavier found himself turning to something different, just like Oliver suggested, his alternatives were selective, yet he kept many paths open, Photography, fashion, and business were his top picks and things he found himself surprisingly enjoying . . Surely if he could paint and create melodies of such wonders, then he can stitch some fabric together, solve a few equations, and take a few photo's here and there just fine . . right?
A few years had past, and Xavier was now running his very own Luxury fashion line, he still hosted art galleries here and there, and composed music on the side, but his business took up most of his time.
But on his free days he'd turn to photography, taking pictures of things he sought comfort in . . and people, he'd often take pictures of unsuspecting people, pretty ones . . people not so pretty as well, just to try and recreate the life they had on a canvas . . yet somehow always failing to do so.
The moment Xavier found himself close, he'd reach a dead end . . and that destroyed him, internally.
Over the years, he accepted the small flaws in his behavior, and tried his best to reform them, presenting himself as the perfect public figure. He did go to therapy in the past, but when things started rising up, he quit entirely.
Xavier laid back on his office chair, and scrolled through his recent posts comment section, and as expected almost all of it was praise . . some of envy, but that only fueled his ego more . . Until he found a comment that set him off, "His art is so melancholy, it feels a bit sad . . His previous works were brighter, like more happy but now it kind of feels sad . . Like the life in his work isn't there anymore."
Xavier stared at the comment dumbfounded, never had he received that kind of feedback . . portraits he drew were indeed lifeless, but his other art was always regarded as lively, and that was what he always strived for . . Curious, and in a fit of rage . . he clicked on the commenters profile, and saw you.
You, you . . You were what he was looking for, his muse. So, full of life . . He scrolled through your page, and couldn't help but feel the urge to draw you, and paint you . . and paint you he did. . Because soon his entire studio was filled with pieces inspired by you . . so full of 'life' . . .
Yet at some point, he had reached the end of your posts, and it just wasn't enough . . he needed you . . He wanted your feedback, he craved your praise . . like no other, he wanted input . . he wanted to know if his work was truly still lifeless . . he wanted you.
After all, a artist isn't complete without his muse.
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want more, buy my limited time only advent calendar?
@ rxmye , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work/theme without prior permission and or confirmation.
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tbaluver · 1 month ago
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Hi! I love your work and this is my first time requesting.. so please ignore if not interested! ♡
the roles are reversed and you are their favorite character and the LADS boys are the player! That’s all I hope you have a good day/night!~ 💗
When They're The MC- The Love And DeepSpace Men
parings in order: Xavier x Reader, Zayne x Reader, Rafayel x Reader, Sylus x Reader genre: slight suggestive content below otherwise fluff ! a/n: hihi anonnie ! ⸜(。˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ thank you so much for requesting this was such a cute request (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) i hope this was alright and if it wasn't pretend it doesnt exist ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ ) otherwise i hope to see you again soon anonnie ! enjoy reading ! (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡
⋆。‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧。⋆
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Xavier:
Xavier is the type of player to listen to your secret times or tender moments and fall asleep listening to your voice. He likes to imagine you’re right beside him before he falls into his peaceful slumber.
However he does get hard listening to your suggestive audio or scenes that play out.
Spends most of his time grinding out materials for your memories so your character is strong when he reaches end game. Almost has your DeepSpace Trial finished and your affinity level maxed.
Ignores all the calls and text messages of the other main leads except yours.
When he runs out of content for you in the game, he would find solitude on watching edits or reading fanfics of you until the game finally updates its lore for you. Sometimes he'll replay the kindle moments of his favorite cards of you, which is literally all of them.
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Zayne:
Nobody expected Zayne to be the type to play this game and at first, neither did he. But he downloaded the game out of curiosity and ended up playing until he reached the end game.
He has your affinity almost maxed out while the rest of the other leads are lower level. He would know all of your lore and has read all of your anecdotes without skipping them for the gems.
Uses the quality time to keep track of his studies but he can’t help but often glance at his screen and find you glancing back at him as well.
He has the Aurum Pass Premium and saves all of his diamonds for your upcoming banners. Does not even bother checking any of the other main leads in the game unless the banner included you
He ONLY plays this game in his room or whenever he's alone. Even though he has his headphones in, he can't help but look around to make sure nobody heard any of your suggestive sounds that sounded like a breathy moan. His ears would turn so red and he can't help but find his hand sliding down his pants
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Rafayel:
The type of player that took hours customizing his character to make sure it looks exactly like him. He spends a lot of time with his character and yours in the photo booth. He tries to do a lot of glitches so it looks like you guys are kissing or hugging or him hitting it from the back.
The type that never lets you have a turn at the claw machine. If you managed to have a turn first, he’s IMMEDIATELY requesting to have the next turn. Yes, he thinks your pout is cute whenever you don’t get the plushie but he is NOT wasting any affinity points.
He would use all of his daily emojis just to talk to you and pokes you a lot in the cafe until you get annoyed.
The type to make the most beautiful fanart of you and make the most entertaining edits of you on social media. The type to freak out when he hears your solo banner is coming. He’s literally kicking his feet and rolling around in his bed in excitement
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Sylus:
Sylus wasn’t interested in the game at first until your trailer kept popping up and out of curiosity and interest in your character, he decided to try it.
He became the BIGGEST spender when it comes to only your character. He would have all your cards maxed out from the levels and to the protocores. Each card he has of you would be ranked up to level 3 and most of your five stars are awakened. He has all your outfits and all of your poses.
However he would have the biggest frown on his face when he loses his pity the first couple of pulls. That’s not going to stop him until he has all your memories.
He is the type to tease your character by touching you a lot in the cafe to the point you're crossing your arms with a pout and your cheeks are flushed.
Spends a while in the photobooth to stare at your chest or you characters butt. Shamelessly tries to do a couple dirty glitches and the thought of you being real wouldn't leave his mind
Bonus: They all hate Lemonette.
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historiaxvanserra · 1 month ago
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In Hades I Am With You | Chapter One
Pairing: Azriel x Hewn!city reader
Word Count: 3.8k
Summary: With rising tensions across the sea causing unrest in the capital, the two warring factions of the Night Court must come to terms.
Reader is the ill-fated daughter of a cruel Lord of Night; plagued with prophetic dreams and cursed with rare, arcane gifts. Azriel is the stoic spymaster; forged from violence, lethal and honed to a fatal sharpness. The pair find themselves bound to one another through sacred oaths. For better or worse.
Tags: Forced proximity, strangers to lovers, Night Court lore, Priestess reader, discussions of SA and abuse, discussions of sex work, criticism of misogyny, sexism, and general abuse in all its forms, eventual smut, slight corruption kink, reader is incredibly romantic and horny.
Please let me know what you think. This chapter and readers powers are heavily inspired by Poppy from From Blood and Ash.
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I was born on a night like this, I think. 
Storm-streaked, he had once called me. If only he could see me now; standing at the foothills of the mountain, wind-beaten and with the acrid taste of seafret on my lips. When I was a girl my father had told me that I came into the world the way the Old Gods had. Born from the merciless, blue-green depths of the sea. 
To be beautiful and cruel, and fearless.
Now fear is all I know.
The streets of the great mountain city are plagued by a feverish summer storm and, at the fatal peal of thunder I cast my eyes skyward. A terrible dread coils in the pit of my stomach. 
The visions come with the storm; fleeting images of an unforgiving tempest as it ravages all in its wake. The dark figure of a man, who whispers my name like a prayer. 
The God of plagues and prophecy.
Death had first come to me in a dream. Haunting and prophetic. Shrouded in seraphic blue light. 
Heat swells beneath the surface of the hydrangea clouds and the dark waters of the Sidra turn violent. Ivory seafoam coils and contorts violently like the tendrils of some grotesque sea-snake. I think of an old story my father had told me once. A human princess from the continent. She had been beautiful once. Until some dark, deathless God had lay claim to her. A monstrous thing. Rising from the depths of her watery tomb to lay waste to the men who had hurt her. Thrashing and writhing as the waves crested over the port of this wretched city. 
The crack of forked, white lightning against the darkening horizon breaks my reverie and Scylla nestles into my side with a bruising force. I smooth a hand flat on her muzzle. Her lustrous dark mane feels soft under my tender touch and she exhales a hot breath that rises like steam in the wet heat of the Summer storm. 
“Calm, Scylla.” I whisper tenderly to the mare I had taken to mount. My lips graze her dappled coat along her muzzle and I welcome the earthy fetor as it fills my senses. 
“Gentle, girl.” I reaffirm, patting the mount affectionately as I tie the reins to the crumbling statue of some prince long dead. 
“I’ll be back soon.” I promise. My voice wavers with another rumble of thunder. 
When I was a girl, my father had told me to count the moments between the cacophony of thunder and the flash of white lightning to work out how many leagues away it might be. 
At this moment I know that I am standing in the eye of the storm. 
Scylla watches warily as my figure disappears into the darkness of the lower city. I still hear her in the distance long after I am gone. Cloistered in the darkness of the city’s narrow alleys I remove the onyx veil that shrouds my features. I bury it in the folds of the plain, grey cloak I had stolen from Leda. 
I weave through the long, winding streets. I observe the world in flashes of cruel light and sound that permeates the suffocating darkness that saturates the lower city. I hear the echo of it in the lurid shouts of merchants, and the vulgar songs of sailors, coming home from the docks at the mouth of the Sidra. I listen to them all; as they beg, barter and brawl in the filthy streets. The fetor of decay lingers in the air like festering fruit flesh in the feverish heat of the slums. Throngs of beggar children chase the merchant's carts as they roll through the putrid pools of waste upon the wet, cobbled stone. Though, I only catch fleeting glimpses of them each time the cruel, seraphic light cuts through the blanket of the dark. 
As I pass through the Streets of Silk, I hear the bawdy rhymes of the painted whores as they call out into the night like a siren song; all sultry-eyed and dressed in lace that billows in the wretched breeze like the tendrils of a monstrous chimera. Fated to lure wayward sailors to their watery tombs. 
It is then, as the city bells toll their mournful song, that I reach my destination. 
The building stands as one of the last unsanctioned pleasure halls in the city; its weary slate facade is cut from the same dark stone as the mountain that oppresses the city. Its neglected roof tiles gleam in the pallid silver faelights like moonlight on the murky-green depths of the Sidra. Above the door, I observe the pillory that bears the establishment's name. The Jade Pearl, painted in varying gaudy shades of green and gold. 
The pleasure hall on the outer banks of the mountain city is alive with sordid activity. The whores in their fine silks twirl and dance in merry rings like water nymphs, and the serving girls sing sultry harmonies like siren songs, as they fill up the cups of patrons with sticky, honeyed mead. The high-arching melody of lyres and harps cut through the cacophony of carnal sounds; the officious laughter of Darkbringers, the vulgar curses and honeyed words, whispered into the skin of wind-beaten sailors and fat merchants. 
I traverse the narrow corridors that run like veins into the heart of the tavern. Its dark antechamber is bathed in shadow and dying fireglow that casts the word in a pallid light. The emerald bar curves around the hall in the shape of a crescent moon and the tables dapple the room like stars. 
“What a pretty creature you are, Mistress.” A beautiful wraith compliments, tugging and the long sleeves of my stolen robes. With tender touches and whispers the wraith works the buttons of my robes until I am left in the thin champagne shift I had worn beneath my cloak. 
She’s a slender looking creature, with pale blue eyes that look almost silver in the dying light of the hearth. Her long, white hair is braided over her shoulder like the tendril of some mythical siren. 
Dangerous and inviting. 
“Whatever you desire, be it wine or women, I will procure for you tonight,” She purrs, her voice low and sultry as she looks at me with those pale eyes. She’s dressed in the gauzy, silk robes of a whore. The garment flows like water over the curve of her hip and with a deep slit in its middle that exposes the graceful swell of her breasts beneath. And through her guise of beauty and seduction, I see the chains that bind her.
As I am bound. To this court. To the mountain that we call home.
“A drink would be nice,” I acquiesce, sliding a gold coin across the polished surface of the bar, “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“It is no trouble at all, mistress- but this far too much coin.” The wraith begins to untether the cracked leather coin purse from her hip. She begins to exchange the gold for smaller coins of silver and bronze, counting them in her open palm. 
“Please - keep it -- I’ve no use for such things anyway.” I command, nodding towards the coin in her hand. The wraith shakes her head and tries to protest but a call from the brutish looking owner draws the girl's attention away from me. I look up from my spot, across the painted emerald surface of the bar, to the games table. A voice, thick with mirth and malice, beckons my attention. 
“There are rumors amongst the legion that the High Lord will return to Court by the moon's turn.” The cruel laugh of a Darkbringer draws my interest as they sit around an emerald table. Crimson cards and dice litter the surface of the table and in its center a collection of coins. The male at the head of the table is dressed in his court robes; a dark overcoat with silver embroidery along the collars and cuffs. The others have abandoned their stifling robes in lieu of casual black tunics and pants. It is only through the tendrils of dark that shroud them in shadow that I know what they are.
These men are members of The Night Court’s legion of Darkbringers; and servants of the High Lord’s Steward. The larger of the three, unsheathes his dagger and places it atop the pile of coins in lieu of money. 
A reminder of their lethal potential. 
A vein of dark power that speaks to a coming vision plagues me in those spaces between the seconds. Untethered and adrift in the ether I allow my fragile mind to wander. I see a lake from which the dead rise like a devastating tempest. I see a King atop a dias, and a throne of splintered bone. And, through the blanket of the dark, I see the gleam of Illyrian Steel and age worn bone. 
Then, that tenuous connection to the Otherworld is severed. 
“The commander of the city watch says that tensions in the lower city are rising.” The deep timbre of the Darkbringer rouses me from thought again.
“I heard that the Lord Protector plans to broker an alliance with the Death Lord himself,”
“ if only to free himself of Rhysand’s leash.” 
“--bring him and that bitch of his to heel morelike.” The youngest of the three smiles malevolently.
“Enough of that, boys, we’re in the presence of a Lady.” The leader implies dangerously and at once, three heads incline in my direction. There are no Ladies allowed in this part of the city. The females of this forsaken city are bound to the Moonstone Palace. Forced to our knees in deference to our male oppressors. The only women that still dwell in the lower city are whores and exiles. Of which I am neither. 
Something dark and terrible roils in the pit of my stomach as the male approaches. I pull the hood of the austere, grey cloak to veil my face in shadows. The pale eyes of the Darkbringer meet mine through the din and his smile curls around the sharpness of his teeth.
The cold, amethyst hilt of a dagger kisses the tender flesh of my thigh beneath the many lawyers of dark fabric and I am reminded of my own lethal potential. The dagger had been passed from my grandsire some years ago. Made and forged from the ancient power that dwells beneath the mountain that we call home. The dagger itself had been set in a hilt of dark wood, trimmed with silver and precious gems; amethyst, sapphire and onyx. Its blade was fashioned of Illyrian steel and honed to a fatal sharpness.
“What a pretty little bird, she is.” He taunts as he approaches, his manner imposing and vindictive as he takes my chin roughly between his fingers. 
“I am no Lady, Ser.” I swallow thickly. It is true, of course. I am no Lady of the Night Court. I had been a babe when they found me. The cursed daughter to a cruel lord and some terrified nymph. 
My mother died giving me life and left me at the ruined Temple of Beara, the Mistress of Storms, deep in the foothills of the mountain. In the hopes that the Priestesses would shelter me from the cruelty of this court. After the temple fell I was brought before the Lords of Night and given to the Temple of Astarion on account of my rare and ancient gift. 
“Then perhaps you might regale my friends and I with the tale of how a pretty thing like you ends up here.” The Darkbringer replies, sliding a coin across the table. His gaze drops to the rings that adorn my hands; fine rings of onyx and amethyst, mined from the wretched bowels of the mountain that I have come to call home. The mark of my good breeding. 
“I assure you Ser, I am no whore either.” I chastise, sliding my hand beneath the folds of my cloak. The lust that pools in his eyes is a dreadful thing. Lecherous and heinous. Though I take comfort in the knowledge that my true identity is concealed. 
As the Pythia of the Night Court a dark veil typically obscures my features from the view of men; save from my eyes, which are heavily darkened with kohl and pigments of sapphire and amethyst that hail from the mines of Illyria. The veil protects me as much as it oppresses me. For if male like this knew of the power I possess, they would seek to control it, to covet that power until I were a vessel of their ill intent. That is why I was given to the Temple as a child. Why my estranged father and the Steward of the Night Court seek to make me their weapon. I know then that if I am discovered I will suffer for it. The kind of suffering that only exists here, in the rotting depths of Hewn City.
“No, I see that now.” Devilment darkens his pale gaze and the cut of amethyst shines in his dark eyes, he releases me from his bruising grip with a dark laugh. 
“Curious little thing.” One of the men whispers. 
“This is not the place for a gentle creature like you, Lady” He whispers, his pointed finger ghosts the cut of onyx on my hand,  “luckily for you I am feeling quite merciful.” 
“I am not as gentle as I look, Ser.” I warn. The three Darkbringers laugh cruelly. I turn to leave when a firm hand closes around my wrist and twists me so I am held in the Darkbringers bruising embrace. His lips drag a tortuous line along the side of my jaw. 
“Now, now little bird,” He coos mockingly against the shell of my ear as I struggle violently against him, “flighty little thing.” 
Bile rises in my throat as the Darkbringer’s companions laugh and fingers dig into the knife at my thigh, unsheathing it in a moment and pressing it against the male's pale throat. Unshed tears line my eyes like flecks of silver starlight as his hands still on my waist. 
“That is what you call mercy?” I laugh bitterly at the man, his eyes hardening as the Illyrian steel blade glints in the dim light. 
“Let go of her, Aeres.” The eldest of the three orders and the Darkbringer unhands me at once.
“Now fly back to your cage, little bird.” The elder male nods towards the rear exit beyond the bar. 
On uncertain feet I Traverse the narrow aisle of the tavern I find myself adrift amongst the dancing tide of patrons. A throng of women, clad in gauzy robes and underthings, twist and contort like columns of technicolor seafoam. The cruel laughter from the dance floor pulls me deeper into the wretched heart of the pleasure house. Lurid whistles and a series of vulgar gestures rouse my attention. A female; dressed in spider silk and lace coils around a portly merchant at the games table. She slips into his lap with a serpentine grace. I watch as the merchant’s weathered hand traces the line of her throat to the swell of her breasts. Smacking his hand away, the woman laughs, it is a beautiful, false thing that glitters in the pallid light.
“Well, girl I hope you fuck better than you play cards.” The merchant complains, laying down his deck of crimson cards. The female curls a painted hand around the cuffs of his tunic and whispers into his ear and the merchant's mouth curves into a lurid smile. One thick hand draws down her stomach, the other brushes the flesh of her thigh, slipping under the folds of her robe between her legs --
Oh.
I avert my eyes at the scene as a blush kisses its way along my neck and chest at the intimacy of it. The merchant rises from his seat at the table, taking the female slender hand in his. The whispered words they exchange are too low for me to hear but her answering smile is enough to know it was something wicked. The female rises leads the merchant towards the sleeping chambers beyond the emerald curtains. 
I watch as the merchant's shadowy figure is swallowed by the darkness as the curtain is drawn. My attention lingers far after they are gone, leaving only the smell of salt and jasmine in their wake. 
I am overcome with a strange, prophetic awareness.; dreams of shadowed light and a bleeding star, scarred hands that track the constellations as they reign over the black tapestry of the sky.
The high-arching symphony of strings and lyres blossoms in the feverish heat of the tavern. The soft melody of the lyres seems to echo off of the high, domed ceiling, as the heavy beat of a drum joins the cacophony of sound. It’s a hypnotizing, deeply sensual beat, that is unlike anything I have ever heard. 
Primal and carnal. 
I find myself adrift in the sway of the dancing sea. Slowly, I make my way along the length of the bar, reaching out to touch the gauzy jade curtains, parting them slowly --
“I don’t think you want to go in there, Mistress.” The lilting voice of the wraith warns. 
“Why not?” I ask curiously, lowering my hand from the curtain. The wraith laughs prettily, her cerulean eyes glinting in the dying light of the fire. 
“Some don’t appreciate an audience, Sweet girl.” 
“An audience?” I ask. 
Through the darkness of the antechamber, I see the silhouettes of the whores and their patrons, writhing and undulating with the beat of the drum. The music is punctuated by panting breaths and lilting moans, and the vulgar sound of men as they find their pleasure. 
“Oh.” The wraith laughs again, her painted lips curl into a wicked smile.
“Is it your first time here, Priestess?” The wraith leans in, the rich tenor of her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. Fear coils in my stomach and my grip on the emerald surface of the bar tightens. 
“I’m no priestess.” I try to emulate her melodious laughter and my eyes narrow in faux concern. 
“You needn't lie to me, Pythia. Your secret's safe with me.” Her words resound in my head and realization dawns. She’s daemati. 
“That type of secret is not safe with anyone.”
“What could I gain from exposing it to anyone? I wish you no ill will.” She returns. 
“You’d earn the Lord Protector's favor, of that I am certain --.” 
The wraith's face twists into a grimace and her sapphire stare hardens to a cold, wicked thing. “I have no need for that viper’s favour.” The venom laced in her voice speaks to the malice she holds for this place, its patrons and the cruel light of Hewn City. Many within the court resent the way in which we live, clinging to the slivers of power we are allowed, cowering in the darkness of the mountain. 
Things are changing as of late, war looms ever closer and whispers of dissent from the continent bring about unrest in the people. Many turn to the High Lord and his Lady for liberation from the dying vestiges and brutal traditions of this court. For many years I myself have lived in servitude and isolation, serving Keir, The Lord Protector and Steward of the ancient mountain city. 
As his coveted oracle; a conduit for his own power.
A cruel wind cuts through the heat of the pleasure hall as the doors open to announce an influx of new patrons. Three men, dressed in court robes enter through the archway, each shaded in shadows and dark wisps of power. My heart hammers thunderously in my chest as the men enter the heart of the establishment. 
“A flagon of wine and some dice, Arik.” The Darkbringer announces to the man behind the bar. My face pales from where I stand. These men are of my personal guard; formidable and unwaveringly loyal to my keeper. 
These men, these good men, are sworn to a monster, and they must do monstrous things to survive here. 
As we all must. 
I veil my face with the hood of my stolen cloak, tucking my hair into the collar so that it is concealed from view, and my face obscured almost entirely. If they were to discover me they would be duty bound to drag me back to the Moonstone Palace and throw me down atop the emerald dias for Keir and my father to punish as they see fit. 
I take another tentative look across the room and observe the men crowded around the game table with women hanging off them, like a swarm of beautiful and merciless harpies. 
“That one’s usual girl looks like you--” The wraith whispers to me, casting her own gaze to Ares who stands alone near the fire rather forlorn for a male in the middle of a brothel.  
“She’s busy with her favorite client upstairs. Perhaps you might retrieve her and make your escape.” Slowly, I turn to the wraith who takes my hand gently and leads me along the length of the bar. 
“You will find Aelle on the second floor -- take sanctuary there. I’ll come for you when your friends are occupied.” 
I hold her hand fondly and press a gold coin into her palm. 
“Thank you.” I say. She presses a chaste kiss to my cheek and ushers me up the stairs. 
As I ascend the steps of the pleasure hall, I slip a hand between the folds of my cloak, fingers ghosting the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh once more. 
The upper levels of the house are painted a deep emerald color and the flickering fae lights saturate the long, narrow corridors in onyx wisps of shadow. The room at the end of the corridor is stepped in near darkness, veins of indigo and navy that obscure everything in a shroud of blue-darkness. The mantle is hung with half-burned candles and a garland of foxglove and jasmine. The antique furniture looks as though it has been carved from the black wood of ash trees and the armchairs in front of the dying hearth are embroidered with dark floral motifs and silver threads. 
I draw in a sharp breath and the scent of pine and night-blooming florals shrouds me in its winter kiss. 
A flash of seraphic light illuminates the room and a deep voice, shaded in nightshade calls out from the blue-darkness.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” 
519 notes · View notes
tusk-rumours · 1 month ago
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shower with me? *°࿐ - sam winchester x gn!reader
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─
word count: 2.5k
summary: cute and suggestive shower with sam.
warnings: pretty suggestive, minor swearing and some suggestive dirty talk, sam's caring and yummy as always.
a/n: this will be the first one i post and i'm just slightly petrified
in dedication to @mxilkyways. for you sexy
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The silence that filled the air of the small motel room between you and Sam was comfortable, both of you silently doing your own things. You sat at the table in the warm, dim light of the motel room, immersed in a lore book on spirits. Spirits and ghosts were always your favourite topic to research, and so you spent your free time trying to learn what you didn't know already.
You hear him coming, as much as he likes to think he's stealthy. His warm hands press against your shoulders, arms wrapping around you.
"C'mon. Come shower with me." Sam murmurs into your ear, squeezing your shoulders gently.
You lift your head, finally tearing your gaze away from your book.
"And why should I do that?" You counter, turning your head towards his slightly, a teasing smile on your lips.
"Because I want you in the shower with me." He says softly, a grin on his face as one hand reaches forward, shutting the book on the table in front of you.
You laugh softly, taking his still outstretched hand to stand up.
"So needy" you tease, intertwining your fingers with his as he scowls down at you playfully. He keeps you close, dragging you to the small motel bathroom. You lean against the counter, your eyes raking over him as he shuts the door. His focus immediately turns back to you, giving you an affectionate smile, the one that he can never help whenever he sees you. You soften at just how sweet he always is, and you know he's not gonna let you lift a finger this entire shower. He's so chivalrous, and it never fails to make you melt.
"You never marked my page." You say softly, a coy smile on your face as you watch him move towards you. he stands in front of you, resting his hands gently on either side of your waist, the warmth of his body already felt upon yours. He scoffs, shaking his head a little at your choice of topic.
"I'm not gonna remember what page I was up to now. When we need something quick on spirits for a case, I won't be able to help."
He rolls his eyes, that smile never once faltering.
"Let's just get this off you, okay?" He says, his hands grasping the hem of your shirt. You don't protest, and he starts to lift your shirt, revealing your bare skin beneath.
"You already know everything there is to know about them anyway." He adds, lifting your shirt over your head, tossing it to the floor. He gives you a soft smile, before reaching for the hem of his own. Despite the lack of heat in this moment, you can't help but be captivated by the way he removes his shirt, his bare chest and torso revealed to you. You've seen him like this plenty of times, but you can never get over just how pretty he is.
"You can never know everything about something." You say, your hands moving to the button of your jeans, slowly pulling them down your legs. Sam watches, and you know a part of him ached to have done it for you. But as much as you love it, you don't want his help to the point where you feel like you're being babied, and he knows this. Silently, you both continue to remove your layers of clothing, each not so discreetly watching the other.
Once you're both bare, he approaches you again, one arm snaking around your waist, the other intertwining your fingers. he kisses your temple gently, murmuring into your ear;
"C'mon. it's getting cold out here."
You smile, following his lead as he opens the shower door, turning on the water. You rest your head against his arm as you wait for the water to warm up, the harsh sound of the water hitting the shower tile filling the small bathroom. Once Sam's checked that it's warm enough, he steps in first, his hold on your hand never faltering as he carefully guides you in to follow him. He shuts the door, moving you to stand under the steady stream of warm water, holding you close by his arms around your waist.
As much as you love showering with Sam, you always find yourself feeling guilty. Because of how big he is, and how small motel showers always are, it's often difficult for you both to share the water at once. And because Sam is so painfully caring, he always immediately makes sure you're taking majority of it, never once letting you get cold. It's a constant back and forth between the two of you. Not that Sam would spill his secret, but he always loves doing this because he knows you'll shower him with kisses of sympathy to soothe his chills.
As predicted, he makes sure you're completely underneath the water, leaving whatever's left for himself.
"Stop doing that." You grab him, pulling him back in close to you, your bare bodies pressed together underneath the water.
"I want you to be warm, honey" He says gently, leaning in to kiss the skin by your jaw softly.
"I'll be warmer if you were standing here, under the water." You say, dipping your head to meet his eyes.
He huffs, silently praying that he'll still get his bombardment of kisses, his lips quirked up fondly. Because he's just so sweet and too caring, you can't help but close the gap and press a quick kiss to his mouth, which causes his lips to soften. His fingertips gently caress your waist, his forearm pressed against your lower back. Pulling away, he reaches for your body wash, the vanilla one he can never get enough of. He'd spend hours snuggled up on top of you, just taking in the sweet scent of your skin.
He steps forward a little, causing you to step out of the stream so he can wash you properly. Suds and bubbles form as he lathers the wash onto his large hands. Then, he gently presses his hands onto your shoulders, his palms covering them entirely. He works in comfortable silence, letting out soft huffs with a smile on his face when you giggle whenever he caresses a ticklish spot. He works his way down, paying close attention to your skin, lifting your hand with careful fingers as he works his way down your arms, practically just admiring every inch of your body in the most heartwarming way possible. His hands rub over your waist and hips, and eventually he has to crouch to wash your legs, and you press your hand against his shoulder, stabilising your weight against him.
He caresses your legs with the wash so carefully and respectfully. You can never quite get over just how polite he is, despite the fact that he's seen and touched every part of you, said the filthiest things into your ear, and made sounds come out of you that surpass absurdly sinful.
He works his way all the way down to the bottom of your feet, massaging out the soreness in them, before his hands travel their way back up your body, resting on your hips as he stands so his eyes meet yours again. He steps back, placing you back in the stream of water. When he tries to leave all the water to you, you tug him in again, firmer this time, wordlessly telling him to stay. This makes him laugh softly, his gaze so affectionate you'd think he feels no emotion other than love. And when he's with you, that's almost entirely true. But he feels so, so many things for you, just love wouldn't be enough to cover it.
As the suds wash off your body, you reach for the tap, turning up the heat of the water. Sam is just so soft and easy to rile up, you can't help but tease him. You're in an especially pestering mood tonight. You laugh as he hisses, jumping away from the water like it's poisonous, which he would say it's not far off. You bask in the warmth of the water, soaking up his reaction.
"Why do you always have to have the water so damn hot?" He asks, gripping the tap to turn it down slightly, to a temperature in between his ideal and yours.
"Because I know you love it." You say coyly, grabbing his own body wash off the shelf. As his eyes catch your movement, he immediately protests, grabbing your wrists.
"No."
"Yes."
"Honey, i'll do it myself. Really." His eyes gaze into yours, pleading.
"Now that's just unfair. You don't have to do everything, you know. Never with me." You say more gently now, your fingertips lightly grazing his arm.
He huffs, defeated. You know he wants to do everything for you all the time, hating when you force him to take the back seat for once. A victorious smirk creeps up onto your lips, which makes Sam smile too, watching as you press your hands to his warm chest, pushing him away from the water. You gather up the suds on your hands, pressing your palms back against his skin. Silence envelopes the two of you again as he admires you delicately cleaning his skin. You try to match the same amount of care and gentleness Sam displayed when he washed you, to try and show your love and gratitude for him, despite the fact that you tease the hell out of him majority of the time.
Sam doesn't know what to do with himself, never getting used to the feeling of being taken care of, standing almost awkwardly as you work. Even though he looks like he's just dying to snatch that bottle away from you, make you sit and do it himself, he wouldn't trade this for anything. You work your way down, paying close attention to his skin before travelling back up, caressing his skin, before pulling him by the hand underneath the water again. As soon as you're done he immediately pulls you in, arms wrapping around your waist, his voice low and soft as his breath fans across your lips.
"Thank you, honey." He dips his head down further, kissing you softly and sweetly, his fingertips lightly moving against the ends of your wet hair against your back. Towards the end of the kiss you smile, pulling away a little.
"Your selfless chivalry makes me sick sometimes," You tease, your words contradicted by the caress of your hands on his neck. He laughs softly, kissing the corner of your mouth quickly, murmuring a soft 'love you' against your cheek, nuzzling his face into your neck.
Eventually he pulls away, almost reluctantly, only because you both feel a slight decline in heat of the water temperature. He sighs, reaching for the tap, already missing your touch under the water even though he still has it.
"Come on, baby." He murmurs, his hands on you as you leave the shower, one quickly pinching a towel off the rack, wrapping it around your shoulders as he gently begins to dry you off. You huff with a smile, as he puts you before himself again, as if prioritising himself would kill him. You let him, because you know he just wants to show you how much he loves you. He's drying himself off quickly before you can protest, too busy lost within your daze of his loving touches, and before you know it he's putting the towel back with a triumphant grin on his pretty face. He wraps you up in his arms, pressing a kiss to your hair as he holds you warmly amongst the humidity of the post-shower bathroom air. After a moment, a smirk quirks up on your lips, and you tilt your head off of his chest to look up at him.
"I should be getting dressed, you know, so why are you pressing my naked body up against you?" You say, cocking your head in playful curiosity.
"Can I not just be affectionate with you and you not spoil it for once?" He replies with a playful shake of his head and a light scoff.
"So you don't care that i'm naked. Up against you..." You trail off teasingly, your fingertips dancing along his shoulder.
"I do care. You know full well I like your body very much. Now stop distracting me. I wanna dote on you."
"Distracting you? You didn't look like you were doing much before." You reply, your hands lightly cascading down his shoulders.
"I'm trying to be affectionate. Now, can you stop trying to climb me so I can get us out of this bathroom?" He says, squeezing your sides gently, trying hard to suppress the smirk threatening to appear on his lips.
"I'm not trying to climb you." You retort, your expression bathed in impish seriousness.
"Bet you want to though." He says teasingly, that damn attractive smirk finally playing on his lips, as he pinches your side, laughing as you yelp and squirm in his hold.
"Now i've got you worked up, hm?" He holds you tighter, his lips making a ticklish path on your neck.
"Can you stop trying to fuck me?" You say through your laughs.
"I'm not!" He immediately protests, an amused, exasperated look covering his features as he lifts his head back up again.
"You so are. And i'm not worked up. You can feel for yourself if you want." You tease, rubbing your leg against his a little, biting your lip. Your attempt at playful seduction is quickly destroyed as your lip falls free from between your teeth in a loud laugh. You relish in the way Sam's cheeks turn bright red, his eyes widening at you.
"No. No. We're not doing this." He says through his flustered smile, grabbing your hips he twists your body towards the door, marching you outside into the bedroom. You laugh, letting him guide you, satisfied in your teasing.
"You drive me up the wall, sweetheart." He says in an amused tone into your ear, holding your shaking body as it racks with laughter. You hum, turning in his hold, so you're facing him properly. Your eyes are bright as you take in his blush and sparkling eyes. Because you've teased him well enough for now, and because he just looks so pretty and kissable, you lean up, pressing a sweet and gentle kiss to his soft lips, your fingers lightly caressing his hair as you taste him. He hums, a soft smile on his lips as you pull away just slightly, resting your forehead against his.
"Let's get ready for bed now, hm? I know you're tired."
You can't help it. The moment's turned soft, but the opportunity is right there.
"You just wanna take me to bed so bad, don't you honey?" You tease, that playful glint reappearing in your eye.
"Jesus" He breathes, pulling away from you, grabbing your sleep shirt off the bed and chucking it at you, which you barely catch, your body racking with laughter once again. As much as you annoy the hell out of Sam, hearing your laugh is something he lives and breathes for. When he hears it, he just feels so warm.
"Just get dressed already, would you?"
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harrysfolklore · 28 days ago
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i’ve always loved the piastri sis lore because the sibling dynamic is so healthy but just to switch it up a little bit in the tiny verstappen!sis universe i can imagine her skipping out on the WDC celebrations with max and be with charles instead and max is a little mad at her at qatar until kelly knocks sense into him 🥰
verstappen!sister was one of the first f1 fics i ever posted 🥺🥺 its kinda heartwarming that you guys still remember it and want to read more about them! it was nice to take a dip into that little world agai, i hope you like this!
READ VERSTAPPEN!YN HERE
The neon lights of Las Vegas blurred through as you rushed through the paddock, your heart torn between two directions. Behind you, the thunderous celebration at Red Bull's garage continued – your brother Max had just sealed his fourth world championship. Any other day, you'd be right there, spraying champagne and screaming until your voice gave out.
But right now, all you could think about was Charles.
You found him in the Ferrari cooldown room, still in his race suit, head in his hands. He looked up when you entered, those green eyes stormy with frustration.
"Mon coeur," he whispered, and despite his evident pain, his lips curved into a small smile at the sight of you. "You're here."
You crossed the room quickly, wrapping your arms around him. He buried his face in your neck, breathing deeply. "Of course I'm here. Always."
"I had it," he mumbled against your skin. "I had the pace, the position... everything. Then they called me in at the worst possible moment—" His voice cracked slightly.
You ran your fingers through his hair soothingly. "I know, baby. I watched the whole thing."
Charles pulled back slightly, cupping your face with both hands. "You should be celebrating with Max, though. It's his championship. I don't want to take you away from that."
"You're not taking me anywhere," you said firmly, pressing your forehead to his. "I choose to be here."
He kissed you softly, gratefully. "Je t'aime. What did I do to deserve you?"
"Existed," you smiled against his lips. "Come on, let's get you out of here."
As you were leaving the cooldown room, hand in hand with Charles, you nearly collided with Max in the corridor. Your brother was still in his race suit, championship cap askew, smelling of champagne and victory.
"YN?" His voice was smaller than usual. "Where were you? Everyone was asking... we were all celebrating and you just disappeared."
Guilt twisted in your stomach. "Max, I'm so sorry, I—"
"She was with me," Charles said quietly, squeezing your hand.
Max's face fell slightly, though he tried to hide it. "Oh." He looked between you both, jaw working like he was trying to find the right words. "I thought... it's the championship, YN. Our fourth championship."
"I know," you said, stepping forward to hug him tightly. "And I'm so, so proud of you. You were incredible out there. But Charles needed me."
Max returned the hug, but you could feel the tension in his shoulders. When he pulled back, his expression was complicated – hurt mixed with resignation.
"Sure, whatever. Stay with your boyfriend." He shook his head, jaw clenched. "It's fine. Not like it's my fourth world championship or anything."
The sarcasm in his voice cut deep. Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you and Charles standing in the corridor.
The next morning, you found Max in the hotel gym, pounding away at a treadmill despite probably being hungover from the celebrations. You knew your brother well enough to recognize when he was working out his frustrations physically.
"Max," you called out softly.
He didn't look at you, just kept running. "Shouldn't you be with Charles?"
"Can we talk? Please?"
He jabbed at the treadmill controls, slowing to a stop. When he finally turned to face you, his expression was guarded. "About what? About how you ditched your own brother's championship celebration to comfort your boyfriend? Because he finished P4?" He grabbed his towel, wiping his face roughly. "Real nice, sister."
"That's not fair and you know it."
"Kelly already gave me the whole speech last night, you know," he said, "Something about 'understanding love' and 'being supportive' and how she'd do the same for me."
"And?"
"And I told her she's supposed to be on my side," he said, but there was less heat in his voice than before. "She just laughed at me."
You sat down on a nearby bench, and after a moment, he joined you. "I'm still mad," he admitted. "And it's still weird as hell that my sister is dating Charles bloody Leclerc of all people."
"Could be worse," you tried. "Could've been Lewis."
"Don't even joke about that," he groaned, but you caught the tiny smile he tried to hide. His face turned serious again. "Kelly made some good points though. About how she'd choose to be with me if I was struggling after a race, even if it meant missing something important. Still doesn't mean I like it."
"I really am sorry about disappearing like that."
"I wanted my sister there," Max's voice cracked slightly. "You've been there for every important moment in my career. Every single one. Until yesterday. It's like ever since you started dating him, I'm losing my little sister bit by bit."
"You're not losing me, Max. You're my brother, nothing will ever change that. But Charles...I love him."
Max was quiet for a long moment. "You really love him that much? It's that serious?"
"Yeah," you whispered. "It is."
He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "I still don't like it. And I'm still mad about yesterday." He paused, then added grudgingly, "But I guess I need to get used to sharing you. Just... don't disappear on me like that again, okay? I had to listen to Helmut asking if you were sick or something. Do you know how awkward it was explaining that my sister was too busy consoling a Ferrari driver to celebrate with us?"
"Did you actually tell him that?"
"No, I told him you had a headache. You're welcome, by the way." He paused. "But seriously, YN. I get that you love him or whatever—" he made a face at the words, "—but you're still my sister."
"And you're still my annoying big brother," you leaned against his shoulder. "So... fourth championship, huh? Getting a bit boring now, isn't it?"
"Never," he grinned, then added more seriously, "Would've been better with you there though."
"I'll make it up to you. Plus, there's still family dinner tonight."
"Yeah, about that..." Max's expression turned mischievous. "I might have told Mom to make that really spicy Indonesian dish Charles couldn't handle last time."
"Max!"
"What? If he's going to be family, he needs to build up his tolerance," he said innocently. "Besides, it's payback for making me miss my sister at my championship celebration."
"You're impossible."
"Yeah, but I'm a four-time world champion impossible brother," he smirked, pulling you into a headlock like when you were kids. "And don't you forget it."
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nosyrobin · 2 months ago
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||DC X SONIC!READER HEADCANNONS||
Summary: HEY?! A wild blue hedgehog that’s as fast as flash?! WHAT THE—
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Sonic!reader who accidentally travels into a comic universe, dc as a choice and accidentally standing in the justice league HQ. “Uhhh.. meow?” The hedgehog says with a shrug. Immediately the hedgehog is running as quick as the flash? Barry or Wally, whatever you think is the flash at the moment is trying to catch the damn hedgehog. But the hedgehog only thinks of this as a game! Smiling before feeling his legs get caught in a glowing yellow rope.
“State your business and name!” The lady with the lasso says holding the animal up. Sonic!reader spits the truth out by how he has accidentally traveled into this universe. The team didn’t want to believe it, but you were still in the lasso of truth. So you were telling the truth. The hedgehog is already friends with flash, who wants to see how fast the hedgehog can do. And seeing how they both can do speed off and stop time while staying slow, yeah they both are downing food together.
Hal who literally makes fun of the quick hedgehog, that was before Sonic!reader took the ring off his finger so quick, flash laughed with the others. Batman only smiled a little before it quickly gone away.
Superman is gushing over how small the hedgehog is. He can’t help but not take Sonic!reader seriously. Really he can’t take the male hedgehog seriously because of how small and how funny and how they are determined to help people. It’s adorable to the man of steel!
Wonder Woman who adore the small hedgehog as well, after learning the adventures Sonic!reader has done and fought during. Wonder Woman smiles at the hedgehog, Sonic!reader then tells about how they have a female friend that wields a hammer. Immediately Wonder Woman is sat down when Sonic!reader describes the hammer and how big it is. Now Wonder Woman needs to know lore.
Gotham villains hate to see Sonic!reader coming when literally next minute they are in jail or in the asylum. Literally poison ivy and Harley were ready for their plan to succeed. But when they took a step forward, they were already in the asylum with a hedgehog swinging cell keys playfully in a guard uniform. “Already ahead of ya! Bye bye!” Then the blue hedgehog is gone.
The hedgehog being wrapped in a blanket like a baby because he got a bit tried when running. Clark is trying not to cry while holding the hedgehog. “Clark…give me the hedgehog.—" Bruce tries to grab the hedgehog. But the super immediately flies away.
Sonic!reader Who does his idle animation whenever speeding away from danger, mocking them as he wags his finger. “Gotta try harder than that!”
Catwoman having her whip around the blue hedgehog, having him hogtied. Sonic!reader is grumbling like the gremlin they are while catwoman, aka Selina is contacting Bruce. “Bruce..I got a hedgehog that says he’s with you..” “sigh..here I come.”
Barry and Wally just watching Sonic!reader speed around, they laugh at how adorable and excited the house. They Wally speeds over to try and stop sonic!reader who got stuff in a box.
“That’s so crash!” Bart says smiling at Sonic!reader who burned into a empty street with their speed. The fire shows a detailed chili dog. “I don’t know what that means, but yeah!” Reader says smiling and high giving Bart.
Impulse who likes Sonic!reader like a brother. Always asking for races and who can shove most food, but honestly it makes impulse and the flash family kinda disappointed to see that you aren’t really like them as you throw up. You eat for energy, they have to eat or else they die. Impulse still likes you treat you like you are part of the flash family, just like the flash does as well.
“You’re too slow!” Sonic!reader says when speeding pass impulse, aka Bart. Bart smiles at this and zooms to catch up which his new brother figure.
Batfamily vs Flashfamily wanting custody over the small hedgehog.
Bruce just training and seeing how fast Sonic!reader is and his potentials before treating Sonic!reader like son he just picked up. (He basically did) Bruce seeing how childish and smart mouth he can be reminded him of one of his sons, so he just basically “adopted” this small hedgehog.
Dick is just not amused at another speedster, what he is amused that this so called “speedster” is named Sonic and is fast like the flash. Reader just shows up in the manor holding up a chili dog with a goofy smile. “Want one? It’s still hot.” Dick couldn’t help but smile at the adorable hedgehog male and took the chili dog. Only he took the chili dog because he wanted to seem nice
Damian who couldn’t care what you are and who you are. Thought he is amused by how quick you are to have the audacity to talk back to him. He found out your weakness and smirks every-time the face of the hedgehog’s face drops at the word “pool.
Tim basically being DR. Eggman for Sonic!reader but more chill and totally not a villian. Tim just wants to know how a hedgehog is talking and is fast like the flash. Maybe he would pull on your quills to get a sample
Jason just reading the hedgehog books, maybe even bringing a comic book to Sonic!reader’s liking as the hedgehog has an oversized shirt with a goofy ahh smile. “Sup Jay!” Sonic!reader says with a smile. Jason just stays quiet and prays that he doesn’t show cute aggression at this hedgehog ass motherfucker.
Sonic!reader who just relaxes in the Wayne manor, talking to Alfred who just freshly made him some chili dogs. Yeah reader can get use to this.
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yesimwriting · 5 months ago
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Normalcy
A/n deadpool and wolverine drabble bc the movie was a little too good
Summary: Still reeling from the loss of your powers, you struggle to hold it together inside the TVA's void. Thankfully, you find an uncharacteristically peaceful distraction in your old friend Deadpool and in the wolverine variant who wants nothing to do with you.
Warnings/info: reader is a (former) avenger (bc i love the avengers <3), reader is described as having similar powers to wanda and having trained with her (bc i love wanda), implied beginning of an accidental love triangle if you squint ig, maybe too much lore for a drabble (?), me writing for characters for the first time so be nice 😭
----
The lines etched into your palms do not bend and twist to spell out secrets, there are no messages worth decoding pressed into your skin. Knowing this is not enough to stop you from staring at your hands like if you could just think about it hard enough...
"There you are, Peanut." The words are so warm you're briefly pulled out of your internal angst. You straighten, head lifting slightly and arms crossing in front of your chest. "Thought I lost you."
Wade continues forward until he's directly in front of you. He pauses, watching you with an unabashed openness that you'd only ever allow him to get away with. "Kidding," he tries, "I'd never lose you."
The familiarity of the casual affection eases you further, the corner of your mouth tugging itself upwards. "I was like 15 feet away from you."
"Sorry for caring." It's his go to comeback when it comes to defending the displays of affection you have the audacity to find overdramatic.
You blink, lips parting despite your lack of response. The world has felt a little slower these last few days, moving at a pace that leaves you with no choice but to reflect. Maybe it's the void.
"Hey," his voice feels a little flatter without his usual humor, "Are you okay?"
You let out a breath, shocked by this new low. Sure, you've known Wade for awhile and you've both seen each other through plenty of stages, but he's never felt the need to attempt a genuine pep talk for you. He's never struck you as the pep talk sort...for anyone. Do you really seem that off?
It's bad enough that your identity crisis has stolen the abilities that would have helped your trio pop out of the void with no real fanfare, you can't also make your insecurities everyone else's problem. "Yeah." The response doesn't feel convincing, but with Wade wearing the Deadpool mask, it's hard to be sure. "Just y'know...we're in a void and our reality might be ripped apart, so I've been better."
He's still watching you with a level of focus that's unnerving. You've gotten used to his familiarity, his lack of care for personal space or the social rules around watching people. "You're doing it again."
"Seducing you with my ability to have a heart to heart while looking this good in my suit?"
You sigh in an attempt to dismiss your slight smile. Happy or sad, superhero that once fought Thanos or regular person that can't regulate their emotions, Wade always treats you the same. "The staring thing. You said you'd stop."
"No, you said I'd stop." The correction is a return to what you're used to. He takes a step towards you, his proximity now forcing you to tilt your chin up slightly to look him in the eye. "I'd never promise to look at you less."
"Comforting."
He angles his chin downwards, making the limited distance feel more significant. "I thought so." For a moment, he's quiet in a way that doesn't feel very him. "Are you sure you're...good?" His hesitance is another reminder that this is far out of his element. "I know this is your first..." Wade's rarely careful, only ever treading lightly on the one subject you never want to bring. "Outing, since..."
"I lost my powers."
Wade goes quiet again. If this conversation is as inevitable as it seems, a part of you wishes it could have come up elsewhere. Maybe in your shared apartment, definitely without the mask so you could better interpret his reactions. It's not often you keep secrets from him, but the hollowness you feel knowing the part of yourself you've lost isn't something you can just share.
It's more than just about missing your party tricks, it's about losing a part of yourself. They were all that was left of your time with the Avengers, of what Wanda taught you before Westview.
He lets out a breath. "They're not lost." You raise your eyebrows slightly, giving him a look meant to caution him against sympathetic optimism. "We don't know that."
He seems so happy to be able to tell you that there's no proof that any and all magical abilities have been flushed out of your system, you don't have it in you to remind him that that's mainly because you have no one to ask. What's left of the Avengers and your government connections either barely understand what you were or are untrustworthy.
"Educated wish?"
His mask muffles a slight gasp. You press your lips together in an attempt to resist smiling. "The last one worked out great."
Your eyebrows pull together skeptically, a reminder that the two of you are still technically in the middle of the last educated wish he attempted to speak into existence. "Didn't Wolverine stab you multiple times--"
He cuts you off with a heavy sigh. "If I took getting stabbed personally, do you know where we'd be?"
In a reality where Wade holds grudges over those kinds of things, you wouldn't be anything to each other, except maybe enemies. You've never pulled a knife or sword or anything sharp on him, but when you first met he did startle you before you had a total grip on your abilities, which resulted in him getting thrown through a wall.
"I never stabbed you."
His hand finds your shoulder. You let him drag his thumb against against the fabric of your suit. "And that's how I know you really love me, Peanut."
You roll your eyes in an attempt to dislodge the warmth that settles in the pit of your stomach. The last thing Wade needs is encouragement. "I mean, I do go around stabbing everyone I like less than you."
He lets out a sound that feels like a scoff attempting to mask itself as a dry laugh. "There's the sense of humor that'd hurt me if I knew you less."
"Well--"
He squeezes your shoulder, "I know you." Okay. You'll let him have this one because maybe there's some truth to what he's saying. "I'm going to go check on the car, because a fucking Honda Odyssey would break down on us for no reason before we got to the fight."
"For no reason or because of the bitch fight you and Wolverine had in it?"
There's a beat of silence in which all you can do is try to imagine Wade's expression behind the mask. You'd like to think that he's smiling. "Oh, Pumpkin." He sighs as if you've stumbled onto saying something terribly naive. "It wasn't a bitch fight, it was awesome, and probably turned you on."
You deadpan a flat, "You caught me." He hasn't let go of your shoulder, and a part of you is oddly glad for it. "I'd offer you help with the car, but..."
You're self aware enough to acknowledge your strengths and weaknesses, car maintenance being the latter. Wade doesn't even let you get your oil changed by yourself anymore.
"I've met you." He squeezes your shoulder again, the gesture weirdly stabilizing. "Give me 15 minutes to actually look at the car and then I'm all yours."
Wade lets go of you, his arm falling to his side. "Aren't you always?"
He lets out an exaggerated gasp. "You're making me feel cheaper than my usual rate, Peanut."
You smile as he turns away. Things are always a little easier with Wade. It's more than just distraction, it's his way of making things feel a little lighter. You're not sure what to do with your 15 minutes of solitude to avoid falling back into self pity.
You originally broke away from the group of void trapped heroes under the premise of needing fresh air, but even here, with the expansive, sparsely wooded area at your disposal, the oxygen in your lungs still feels flat. If Wanda were around, you'd be able to ask if she felt the strangeness of this other plane of existence as well. At least then you'd know if your dislike of the void is only mental or an actual sign of life from your abilities.
You begin to walk forward, hoping to shed all thoughts of both your former self and the eeriness of this other world. There are other people you could talk to you. The others have been polite enough, or at the very least, passionate enough to be talked into facing Cassandra.
The trees you've been wandering through grow in their sparsity, the edge of the woods revealing a patch of grassland highlighted by a fire's warm glow. You squint past the tree line, attempting to make out the figure sitting in front of the flames. Wolverine.
Secluded from the group and staring at a campfire. Surprising. Though, you guess it's not fair to judge him too harshly, you left the group to brood as well.
He doesn't like you, doesn't know you well enough to dislike you, but it took him no time to find a way to get around that. Maybe it's your proximity to Wade. You've done your best to take his hostility as un-personally as possible. You've seen enough people you really care about go through the guilt ridden, fallen hero thing to know how deep that kind of hurt runs.
You've never known a Wolverine or Logan Howlett variant, so you have no way of knowing what he was like before. Sure, you've heard stories, but you're also overly aware of how the media can twist and turn those stories to fit their narrative. One day, a superhero is the world's greatest protector, and the next their the greatest menace. Maybe he was always a little dark, or maybe he wasn't.
"Don't just stand there." The gruffness of his voice startles you more than it should.
Heat crawls up your neck, a part of you more embarrassed than you should be. You weren't lurking, or at the very least, you weren't trying to.
You sigh as you abandon the safety of the tree line. "Sorry." He turns his head away from the fire. "I wasn't--I was just walking."
He's quiet for such a long moment you almost expect him to not respond at all. "Without your shadow?"
Wow, only a halfhearted dig at Wade. You must have caught him in a good mood. "Friend, and he's looking at the car. I'd be looking at the car with him, but I figured the odds for tomorrow are bad enough as is."
Another uneasy stretch of silence. "Yeah." There's not much, if anything, to take from the comment. "If you're here to convince me to go with you guys tomorrow--"
"I'm not." It's an honest answer. You had been walking around aimlessly and happened to stumble onto him. "I'm not into the pep talk thing." He scoffs, the sound lacking in genuine aggression. "What?"
He lifts his gaze from the fire, his eyes settling on some point past the horizon. "I thought you were an Avenger."
You're not sure what bugs you more, the fact that he's so sure he has you all figured out or the implication that the Avengers spend their days encouraging each other instead of actually doing things. What the Avengers are--or maybe were--is so much more than that.
You step forward, further separating you from the cluster of trees. "The Avengers are about a lot more than that."
His attention briefly shifts onto you before returning to the flames. If the silence is meant to be dismissive, it doesn't feel that way. There's a patience there that doesn't suit his usual brooding.
"Do you care if I sit?" The question is forced out before you can overthink it. "I promise no inspirational speeches or small talk."
After a beat, he dips his chin downwards in a nod so subtle you would have missed it if you had been watching him any less carefully. You're more relieved by his acceptance than you should be, your feet carrying you towards the campfire.
You sit at a polite distance, knees bent in front of you. His silence seems to push against the void's sluggishness. Maybe the issue has been you fighting this world's momentum.
"Why are you with him?" You're not sure if you're more shocked by the question or the break in silence. When all you can do is blink, he continues, "You seem--" He subtly clears his throat, as if struggling to admit this next part, "Nice, normal."
Oh. If you had been focused, you likely would have got what he meant without the clarification. "I know Wade's a lot--especially to you." You place a hand against your knee, thinking about that very specific safety you only feel with Wade. You don't have to try at being anything, or worry about earning your keep in any capacity. "But once you get to know him, he's a good friend."
You look away from the fire pit in time to see the skeptical look Logan throws in your direction. "I'm serious." His expression doesn't change. "He um--after I stopped being important to everyone else, he still liked me ." This isn't the conversation you wanted to stumble onto, especially not with someone who you barely know and actively dislikes you. "That sounds kind of dumb, but the point is, he's loyal."
He turns his head back towards the fire. "You always call him by his name." The observation is so stiff you'd consider it hesitant if it came from anyone else.
You've never thought much about Wade's name. Part of it is familiarity, and the rest of it is a force of habit. Even when you were with the Avengers, you preferred using actual names when off duty. It's easier to separate the mask from the person beneath it when you make an active effort to.
You shrug. "I'm not into off duty superhero names, Wolverine."
He falls silent again. You concentrate on the flames, the way they illuminate the world around you. "You can--" He cuts himself off, attention never wavering from the fire. "You can call me Logan, if you want."
An unsteady warmth roots itself in your chest. You didn't expect any sort of kinship between you and the wolverine Wade stole from some other timeline beyond him occasionally accepting your attempts at creating peace between him and Wade.
"Okay," you focus on keeping your tone measured, avoiding any emotions that might startle him, "Logan."
There's no tension in the quiet that follows. You let the minutes pass until you're certain that Wade's waiting for an interruption disguised as an attempt to help. "I should go, Wade's probably waiting for me."
You push yourself to stand. You let yourself glance at him one last time before turning towards the trees you emerged from.
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