#it's the characterization and voices that matter the most anyway

[hard-core-super-star]

if you're weak, come to me [wandanat]

pairing: top!natasha romanoff x bottom!wanda maximoff

summary: wanda gets injured during a mission and natasha is TOTALLY fine with that (not). they seek each other's comfort in the only way they know how.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT -> porn with so many feelings and a dash of plot; mentions of dom/sub dynamics; natasha has so many feelings and no way of verbalizing them; wanda's brattiness is implied; fingering {wanda receiving}; flirty banter; begging; teasing; so many kisses; non-fatal injuries; mentions of blood; not mentioned but this takes place somewhere between age of ultron and civil war

wordcount: 3.6k

a/n: so...this week has been a LOT, i have many thoughts but they're all scattered and filled with rage so i'll save them for another time. the U.S election results have left me feeling both incredibly hopeless and numb and to counteract the heaviness of the moment, i decided to finish this fic instead of spiraling or doomscrolling. easier said than done but it's fine. thank you so much to the lovely person who commissioned this, i had a great time writing for this paring. i still don't feel super confident about my characterization of natasha but it's getting there 😅 anyway, enough rambling, i'm sending you guys all my love and support, my askbox is always open <3

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No one said being an Avenger was easy.

Outside of the long hours, and the possibility of the world ending every other day, there were the unmeasurable amounts of guilt and regret and worry that seemed to plague each and every one of them. They could probably keep a whole building of therapists employed with the amount of trauma they carried.

Everyone at the compound was well aware of their personal situations, but no two felt it as strongly as Natasha and Wanda. There was no denying how well they worked together, how easy their chemistry was, the way they knew exactly what to do to stop each other from spiraling when they needed it most.

Unfortunately, there were moments where their worries clashed together and left them feeling worse than usual.

Moments like today.

Wanda had been chosen to go on a mission without Natasha and the widow had managed to threaten just about everyone she could think of until she was able to go with her girlfriend.

It all would have been fine had the witch not been incredibly annoyed by what she felt to be an overreaction. Even that would have been fine if they hadn't ended up going on the mission while they were still upset with each other.

They weren't mad enough to not worry about each other, but they still chose to go separate ways and focus on getting different things done. Something that would have been fine had Wanda not been ambushed by far too many enemy agents at once.

Steve had been the closest one to the witch and had managed to get there before things turned too sour. Unfortunately, that had been enough to make the Widow spiral. She'd heard her girlfriend request backup in that shaky voice that gave away her fear and she'd been unable to do anything about it.

If Steve had taken any longer to get to Wanda...she didn't want to think about what could have happened. She couldn't think about it.

And yet it was the only thing on her mind on the way home.

The mission had been successful, but she still felt like a failure. Like somehow, despite how inaccurate of an assessment it was, it had all been her fault. If she hadn't allowed her ego to get the better of her, she would have been there. She would have been able to help her girlfriend before she got hurt.

The witch wasn't mortally wounded in any way, but that didn't matter to her.

Wanda, for her part, felt fine. Sure, she was sore and in pain and bleeding, but she was an Avenger, getting hurt came with the territory.

It became obvious to her that her girlfriend didn't feel the same way as her when the redhead decided to ignore her on the way home. The Quinjet was small, and yet the distance between them felt massive.

It wasn't like her to sneak into people's minds without permission, but this was different. This was Natasha, and her concern for her outweighed most of her guilt around using her powers around her.

Maybe it was a bad idea, but she did it anyway, and it allowed her to see the pain her girlfriend was carrying on her shoulders. It pained her to know Natasha was blaming herself. That she didn't believe she was worth all the love the younger woman had for her.

There wasn't an easy solution to that kind of guilt, but Wanda would be dammed if she allowed her girlfriend to continue to suffer in silence.

The second they landed back at the Compound, Natasha made her way to the witch's side. There was an unreadable expression on her face as she looked her lover over and she silently extended her hand out for her.

Wanda wasted no time in accepting her help.

They made their way to their shared room, holding onto each other a little tighter than necessary. Neither of them commented on it, though, they needed the physical contact more than they were willing to admit out loud.

The silence between them bordered on awkward, but they didn't even attempt to break it. They needed to have a long conversation and it needed to happen away from prying eyes and ears.

After a tense walk, they managed to make it inside their room, and Natasha instantly set the younger woman down on the bed. "Do you need to change your bandages?"

The mention of the badly wrapped bandages made Wanda chuckle despite herself. She wasn't sure whose idea it was to go on a mission without Dr. Banner who, despite how awkward he could be about it, always did a great job at patching them up when they were hurt. Sure, it wasn't his area of expertise, but he was much better at it than Steve.

"No, I'm okay," she replied, not aware of the effect her words were going to have on her girlfriend.

The Widow let out a loud scoff. "Oh, you're okay? You were stabbed and shot at but you're okay?"

"'Tasha-"

"Don't." Her tone left no room for arguing. "You're hurt, I'm allowed to be pissed off about it."

"I never said you couldn't be upset," Wanda muttered in response. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm fine."

It was a shitty argument, but it was the best she could do given the circumstance. There was no way to win out over Natasha's stubbornness, so the only thing she could do was hope her words would eventually get through to her. That seeing her so sure that everything was fine would bring her out of the spiral she was stuck in.

The only response the Widow gave was a long sigh, her eyes betraying the true weight of her feelings.

Her hand reached out before she could stop it, and Wanda met her halfway, leaning into her touch with a small smile.

Natasha's fingers trailed across the witch's jawline as her eyes took in every little scrape that painted her delicate features. A part of her knew  she was overreacting. That they're safe and sound and Wanda's injuries will heal in no time.

And yet, it was impossible to stop desperation from building within her. The worries that threatened to swallow her whole if she allowed herself to think about things too much.

"'Tasha." Wanda's voice was barely above a whisper as she tried to get through to her lover one more time. "I'm okay."

"You were hurt."

"I've been through worse."

The words were meant to be reassuring, but they had the opposite effect. If anything, they made Natasha feel more helpless. Like despite all her skills, all her knowledge, all her training, she'll never be able to keep her lover safe.

She'll never be enough.

"Stop that, you're more than enough."

Her eyebrow raised involuntarily in response. "Get out of my mind, little witch."

"Hey! It's not my fault your thoughts are so loud."

Despite the heaviness that still lingered within her, a chuckle managed to escape past her lips. In an instant, she leaned forward to press a quick kiss to Wanda's pouting lips.

It amazed her how soft the witch could be after all the pain and violence she grew up in.

More than that, it amazed her how quickly her mood was able to shift when she was with the younger woman. How easy it was for her fears to disappear when they were together.

A soft smile was written across her features when she pulled away from her lover, her eyes a mirror that reflected the affection that was clear in the witch's eyes.

"Let me fix you up, detka." Her voice was barely above a whisper, but there was no denying the weight behind her words. "I promise I'll be quick."

Wanda couldn't help but shift nervously in response. It wasn't like she didn't trust Natasha, of course she trusted the redhead, but she knew how she could get. How easy it was for her to get caught up seeing monsters instead of shadows.

"I...are you sure? My bandages should be okay for a few hours."

"Not with the way Steve wrapped them," Natasha replied with a hint of humor in her tone.

The humor wasn't enough to mask her worry, and yet Wanda felt herself relaxing a little. If it helped her girlfriend feel better, she had no complaints about allowing her to clean her wounds up a little.

"Okay."

It was a single word that conveyed the trust she held in the redhead.

Wanda shifted back on the bed until she was laying down with her head resting on their pillows. She'd been in this position many times before, but this was different. There was an edge of vulnerability that clung to the air between them, a need for reassurance that neither of them could verbalize.

Natasha moved closer, not quite settling between the witch's legs, simply coming close enough to reach for her shirt. Her hands shook slightly as she lifted her girlfriend's shirt, her eyes taking in every inch of smooth skin that was revealed to her. Her heart ached in her chest as she examined each and every one of the cuts and bruises that littered her torso.

"I promise I'm okay," Wanda whispered, noticing her girlfriend's hesitation.

"I believe you."

Still, her head ducked down until her lips met the skin that had been revealed to her.

The gasp that escaped past the younger woman's lips made her smile. She still didn't feel completely okay but the helplessness that had settled in her chest was slowly easing away.

Her lips traced every inch of battered skin they could reach, her hands pushing the fabric up and over Wanda's head. With her shirt out of the way, she was able to fully look over the  bandages wrapped around her girlfriend's injuries. They didn't look as bad as she had expected them to and she subconciously let out a sigh of relief.

It didn't matter how many times she was reassured that the younger woman was fine, she needed to see it with her own eyes. To realize she wasn't bleeding out, there was no bullet lodged inside her, no sharp knife sticking out of her. She was fine.

She was safe.

And she was already arching her back in the way that made the Widow lose all of her control.

It wasn't about the pleasure, though. They both knew that. It was about comfort.

About being there for each other in the only way that was able cut through their anxieties. Maybe it was wrong to have to rely on the physical to get rid of the mental strain they were always under, but it made sense to them. More than that, it worked.

Because as much as they trusted and loved each other, being vulnerable wasn't something that came easy to them. Especially not after a mission when their fight or flight insticts were still on.

"I'm here," Natasha mumbled, shifting until she was hovering over her girlfriend. "I'm right here, Wands."

The words brought a beautiful smile to the witch's face. "I know...but you're still too far."

Wanda managed to work up enough courage to wrap her arms around Natasha's neck. She tried to keep her grip loose, just in case the Widow wasn't ready for too much physical contact.

"Patience," she replied. "I'm in the middle of something here. I still haven't cleaned you up."

The witch couldn't help but roll her eyes at that. The last thing on her mind right was her injuries. She felt fine. More than that, she felt weirdly needy and she needed her girlfriend's lips in a completely different spot.

She knew complaining probably wouldn't get her very far, but she couldn't help it. Maybe some light playfulness would help Natasha feel better.

"Come on, 'Tasha, that can wait. I need you right now."

The redhead paused for a second, green eyes focused intently on Wanda's face. She thought things over for a second, silently analyzing the situation in front of her. Her girlfriend seemed fine. All that seemed to linger were her wounds but not the pain they had initially brought.

It was irresponsible, she knew that much, but how was she supposed to deny her beautiful lover?

"How are you always so needy?" She replied, her soft smile growing just a tad bit teasing. "Don't tell me I've spoiled you too much."

"Maybe you have." Wanda shrugged. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"I beg to differ."

Natasha leaned down to capture the witch's lips again. This time, there was a little less softness to the contact and a little more urgency. And a lot of unrestrained desperation neither of them knew what to do with.

One kiss turned into two which turned into Wanda digging her nails into Natasha's shoulders while her hips bucked involuntarily. The Widow's thigh was too far to provide the witch with any real friction and yet it only made everything feel ten times more intense. An intensity that always seemed to catch up to them when they were together in such a way.

"Nat..." Wanda groaned, head tilting back in both pleasure and desperation.

"I know." Despite the teasing edge to her response, there was nothing but affection in her tone. Nothing but devotion for her lover. "What did I say about patience?"

One of Natasha's hands made its way between their bodies, her fingers tracing a path she knew by memory. The witch didn't seem to be in the mood for much teasing but she couldn't help it. There was something so exciting about turning her girlfriend into a desperate mess.

She knew, on some level, where it came from. That Wanda needed to be taken care of just as badly as she needed to be in control. They were on opposite ends of the same spectrum.

The witch arched her back in an attempt to push her chest further into Natasha's hand, a quiet moan leaving her lips as she teased her hardned nipples. "Stop teasing."

"I've barely started, detka. Don't tell me you already can't handle it?"

"You're so mean."

"You like it."

Wanda didn't have any time to refute that claim because right when she opened her mouth to speak, the redhead decided to finally give in to what her body needed.

"I oh-" The witch's body shuddered as Natasha's hand moved down, slidding into her tight pants and cupping her wet heat. The fabric of her underwear was still in the way, but neither of them cared too much about the obstruction.

Matching moans left their lips as the Widow found the wet spot staining the younger woman's underwear, her fingers moving over the soaked fabric with renowed purpose.

"What was that?" Natasha teased. "Were you going to say something?"

Her girlfriend's tone had Wanda clenching around pure air, her hips bucking involuntarily in search of more friction. "N-no."

"Are you sure? I can stop if you need me to."

"Fuck no. Don't stop...please."

"Good girl."

The praise sent shivers down Wanda's spine and effectively turned all her thoughts to pure mush. It should have been embarrassing how quickly she fell apart for her lover and yet all she could feel was pleasure. And maybe a little pride at how fast she managed to make Natasha give in to what she wanted.

That sort of pride was mutual, though, and it caused desire to thrum in their veins. Desire for what? That wasn't as easy to figure out. Thankfully, they had nothing but time to try.

Natasha quickly grew tired of teasing her girlfriend. Not because she didn't want to keep doing it (she really really did), but because she could tell she needed more. And after the day they'd had, she wasn't sure she'd be able to deny the witch anything.

Her fingers slid inside Wanda's ruined underwear, relishing the loud gasp that escaped the younger woman when she brushed against her clit. The witch was always sensitive, and today was no exception. It made these kinds of moments all the more exciting for her.

"Oh, fuck." Wanda's voice came out more like a whine than anything else. "Please."

"Please what?" She responded, leaning down to trail kisses down the witch's jawline. "Use your words like a good girl."

The only response she could form for a few seconds was another whine. Natasha always knew exactly what to do, exactly what to say, to help her sink down into that fuzzy, submissive headspace she was slowly getting used to. They hadn't done much exploring, too busy with never-ending missions to safely allow the witch to slip, but the safe experimentation they'd done had taught them both more than enough.

Mainly, it taught them how much they both thrive in that type of scenario. How much they depend on each other, on and off the battlefield.

"Don't stop," Wanda begged, feeling her hesitation fade away with every second that went by. "Touch me, fuck me, anything, please."

If Natasha was in a crueler mood, she would have taken her time to tease the younger woman. To play with her until she was a writhing, whimpering mess beneath her.

As fun as that sounded, she wasn't in the mood for that today. She wanted to let go. To help Wanda let go until all that was left was the two of them, locked together, in the sanctuary of their room.

"That's my girl." Her words were accompanied by the movement of her fingers. They slid through Wanda's slick folds before slowly easing in to her cunt. "Fuck, you're soaked for me, detka."

The witch was more than wet enough to take Natasha's fingers but the Widow still took her time, working two fingers inside and diligently watching her lover's face contort with pleasure. The way her walls fluttered around her was intoxicating, drawing the digits in deeper and practically begging her to stay buried inside her.

She moved slowly. Not because she wanted to tease but because she wanted to draw out the sensations. To overwhelm Wanda with the devotion she couldn't properly express most days.

To be fair, it didn't seem like the younger woman minded. They were both broken, albeit in different ways, and they seemed to understand eachother without words. It was the most comforting thing either of them had ever known.

But God, she was so afraid of losing this. Of losing the one good thing she had. The one person who didn't see her as the Black Widow or a S.H.I.E.L.D. product. To Wanda, she was simply 'Tasha and it meant far more to her than anything else.

It wasn't hard for Wanda to realize the change in her girlfriend's thoughts. The sudden change in her breathing, the glosiness that overtook her eyes. She knew exactly what it meant and she knew she had to do something before the redhead started drowning in her thoughts.

So, she did the only thing she could think of right now. Mainly because thinking was getting difficult and it wasn't like she could move around too much with the Widow's fingers buried in her pussy.

Her hands moved to Natasha's face, cuping her cheeks and bringing her closer until their lips met once again. The kiss was a stark contrast to the movements of the redhead's fingers, but neither of them seemed to care.

All they cared about was being together.

Wanda pulled away first, her panting breaths turning into whimpering gasps. The coil in her stomach was about ready to snap, her hips bucking desperately into the readhead's hand. "Nat- I can't, I need-"

"What do you need, detka?" She asked, even though she already knew the answer. She couldn't help it, she loved the way the witch's eyebrows furrowed in frustration when she interrupted her just to tease her.

"Need to cum, please-" Her words turned into a moan when Natasha's thumb found her swollen clit. "Please, can I cum?"

The desperation in her girlfriend's voice made the redhead smile proudly. It was hard to think about her fears when she had the witch like this. Completely and utterly under her spell.

"Of course," she replied, speeding up the thrusts of her fingers in an attempt to bring Wanda even closer to falling apart. "Come on, be a good girl and cum for me."

The witch felt overwhelmed in the best way. All she could think about, all she could feel, was Natasha. Her words, her hands, the pleasure only she was able to bring her. It was all too much yet it felt so good.

Her walls clenched around the Widow's fingers as she lost control of herself, giving in to the pleasure and letting everything else fade away. All it took was a few sharp thrusts of Natasha's fingers before she was moaning her lover's name, her eyes squeezing shut while she rode the waves of pleasure that crashed into her.

The redhead worked her through her orgasm, making sure to slow down a little to avoid overstimulating the younger woman. She leaned down to pepper kisses across each and every inch of Wanda's neck to help ground her a little more.

Neither of them were sure how much time went by before Wanda was able to open her eyes again, but when she finally did, the large, slightly goofy, smile on her face instantly gave away how she was feeling.

Still, Natasha asked anyway.

"You okay?"

"Hmmm, yeah."

The Widow chuckled, her heart practically bursting out of her chest at the sight of Wanda so happy and relaxed. It was a sight that never failed to make her feel better, no matter how shitty her day had been before.

"Good." She placed a few extra kisses across Wanda's face before shifting further down her body. "Because we're not done yet."

Natasha was talking about the remaining injuries she hadn't taken a look at yet but if they got up to other things too...well, she wouldn't complain about that.

[bumblingbabooshka]

-crawling out from under an abandoned house- B'Elanna Torres who has been denied the chance to feel feminine and small and protected and cherished (as everyone around her constantly portrays her as 'strong, angry, loner, explosive, mean, bitch, standoffish' which obviously heavily colors her perception of herself and makes her less likely to feel she can be vulnerable or she literally just can't be because she has to do her vitally important job and survive and help everyone else survive) to the point that even though she desires it she feels it's silly to even want let alone pursue or expect X Seven of Nine who has been denied the chance to explore her own relationship to gender because ever since she became aware of the concept it has been her tied (and monitored, chastised when deviating) strictly to the most traditional and sexualized definition of femininity imaginable - discovering that she's butch. Are you hearing me? B'Elanna Torres who fantasizes about being wanted gently by men, loved and yearned for by them [looking at her daydream of Chakotay, her classically romantic novels] and Seven of Nine who is not a man but is not a woman - who loves and yearns for her in a way she can't quite express through the narrow lense of heteronormative womanhood that she's been given. Seven of Nine who wants to kiss B'Elanna's hand and protect her and B'Elanna who's never once been protected by anyone, not even her parents. Her own father wouldn't protect her from bullying, saying she was too sensitive. That she should have been stronger. Tom saying he 'didn't think' she cared about romantic gestures because she's so strong and independent. [In this way she is expected, even as a child or in an intimate partnership, to take on everything stoically and to react to anything at all is an 'outsized reaction', out of character, shocking and dangerous - there is no time and no relationship no matter how intimate where she can be vulnerable and soft and wanting without it being 'too much'] Is this thing on???? Can you imagine Seven telling B'Elanna that she sees how scared she is, how fragile she is, and that she'll protect her with her life if necessary??? Can you imagine Seven, injured in some way [calculated yet foolhardy on her part], being tended to frantically but skillfully by B'Elanna who's scolding her with a furrowed brow and a voice so drenched with worry it dulls any harshness in her words which Seven isn't listening to anyway because she's too busy looking at her face and hearing the sound and cataloging how fast her heart is beating and thinking back to all those old movies Tom showed them all with scenes of women tending to their men and being rewarded for it with a kiss and an 'I'm sorry darling' and those holonovels Janeway goes through where a woman in a silk nightgown meets her monstrous lover in the rain or a darkened hall after finding out some terrible secret and nearly drops her candle upon seeing him but remains brave, holding onto her love. Everyone else might be afraid, but not her, she understands him ['we difficult patients have to stick together'] and Seven never saw herself as the tending type or the bleeding heart but B'Elanna is. B'Elanna loves machines, loves people so desperately it makes her miserable, and she never drops her candle. B'Elanna's beating, bleeding heart is pouring over her and Seven realizes she wants it for her own. She wants her for her own. Her love. Her woman. Seven - She's a scoundrel, a stately figure with a terrible secret written all over her face, a brute who doesn't deserve the tender touch he's being gifted and she raises her hands to cup B'Elanna's face and kisses her. And it's the only experience she would privately characterize as perfect. And something clicks very neatly into place.

[queensunshinee]

Time Of Our Lives || Part 11

Part 11:

Liana could easily say she would pay thousands of dollars to fly home on another day. But obviously she didn't have thousands of spare dollars, and the ones who bought her the plane tickets were her parents, along with Art's parents. Of course, seating them side by side the entire way from Stanford home.

Most of the semester she managed to avoid him. From time to time she would feel a scrutinizing gaze on her and knew it was Art, but every time she looked up to tell him to go fuck himself, their eyes didn't meet.

Now she has to spend several hours on the plane next to him, with both of them remembering the last time they flew together and she fell asleep on his shoulder. Both know she doesn’t plan on sleeping a single moment on this flight. There’s no way that in a moment of weakness, she will touch Art Donaldson by choice ever again.

Liana's leg shook uncontrollably, causing Art to sigh. He wanted to pull out one of her earbuds and tell her she could relax and that he wouldn’t bite her (no matter how much he wanted to). At this stage, he already thought it was ridiculous. Months have passed, and she acted as if he didn’t exist when they both knew that if they just talked about it, this horrible period would be behind them.

"I bought the snack you like with the jam." He couldn’t resist and pulled out one of her earbuds. His hand brushed her cheek for a second. If he were a stronger man, he wouldn’t have done it. But even if Art Donaldson is strong in most areas of life, he is very weak when it comes to Liana Levy.

"Can I have it back, please?" She asked with a coldness that never characterized her. Even before Stanford, when they were younger, and she tried to make him think she didn’t want any connection to him, she wasn’t cold. She would roll her eyes, go into tantrums, and distance herself as much as she could. She was never indifferent to him. He feared this indifference like a sheep fears a lion.

He put the earbud in her hand and left his hand on hers. She let him for a moment, and he closed his eyes, relishing the touch that lasted exactly three seconds until she recovered and moved away from him as much as she could. As if he might infect her with an incurable disease.

She took the snack he bought for her. Because if there’s one thing to say about Liana, it's that she can't give up her manners, and even when she’s furious with him to the core, she will do this small act to please him. It made his heart ache and kept him silent for the rest of the flight.

Again, like in a déjà vu feeling, her father was waiting for them, and they got into the car. "Liana, even if Mom acts coldly, it's not because she's angry. Okay?" Her father suddenly said, and Liana blushed. Art examined her as she shrank into her seat. "Can we talk about this at home?" She asked quietly, embarrassed by the direction of the conversation. "No, because Mom is at home, and Art is practically family. Right, kiddo?" Her father smiled at him through the mirror. God, how he loved her father and the small window he opened for him into her life. "Anyway, she almost completely fine with everything, and she even wanted to call a few days ago to ask how you were doing." Her father continued. Art didn’t know something had happened between Liana and her mother. "How long has it been like this?" He suddenly asked, his voice much more confident when her father was in the car because he knew Liana wouldn’t complicate the situation. Especially if she’s already in some kind of fight with her mother. "Since the day we talked about London, probably. The day Li flew back to Stanford." If her father could, he would give Art her entire life story at any given moment. He really loved Art as if he were the son he never had.

Art started connecting the dots; That’s the reason she came to him as soon as she landed that day. That’s the reason she seemed so shaken, and that’s the reason he thought she had been crying. She and her mother fought that day. A fight big enough not to speak again for months. And instead of supporting her and insisting on knowing what happened, Art made that day even worse.   The thought that Patrick was going to erase him from her life sharpened at that moment. He knows Patrick would’ve read the situation better. He knows Patrick wouldn’t have acted the way he did that night. Art knows Patrick is selfish in every aspect of his life, except for Liana. While Art happens to be the most selfish when it comes to Liana.

Despite Art’s grandmother ruining all her birthdays throughout her life, Liana loved her as if she were her own grandmother. That’s how she found herself in a car with Art Donaldson, on the way to her nursing home. Because she couldn’t leave the country without seeing her, and Art... well, he heard about it from his parents and said he would drive her because he also wanted to see his grandmother. And once again, only Liana knew that Art was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

"Are we really not going to talk the whole drive?" Art asked. He was dressed nicer than usual and smiling more than usual. On another day, Liana would have found his smile charming, but the last two weeks at home had been filled with silent fights between her and her mother, who probably wouldn’t forgive her in her lifetime. Right now, Liana wanted to wipe the smug smile off Art's face with a slap. But she wasn’t a violent person, so she simply turned up the radio and looked out the window. "Are you planning anything for your birthday?" Art asked, turning the radio back down to its original volume.

"Tell me, is this a mental illness? Are you bipolar or something?" she retorted, only causing his dimple to become more pronounced. "These are really concerning mood swings, I recommend you check it out and really shut up for the rest of this trip that I don’t even know why you joined. You can visit your grandma literally any other day and not with me like a psychopath." She mumbled the last part, causing Art to chuckle.

"Is it amusing to you, Arthur?" she asked, genuinely unable to read the person in front of her. A person whom just a few months ago her instincts betrayed her and made her think she knew all about him.

"It amuses me that you're trying so hard to hate me, Li, instead of taking a moment and talking to me." He said with feigned calmness. Art knew he was getting close to the point where Liana wouldn’t be able to resist and would just spill everything that was on her mind. He knew that from the moment it happened, it would be easier for him to deal with her. He knew that from the moment she started showing him she was angry at him and not ignoring him as if he didn’t exist, he would be able to turn things back.

Maybe not to Christmas when she was completely his, but before, when she looked at him and really saw him. When she cared for him because he was sick. When she came to some of his practices. When she was an inseparable part of his day. If she'll leave when she was at that point again, maybe Patrick won’t be able to take over what remained of her feelings for him. Maybe he'd have a chance to be in her life.

"You’re delusional." She muttered, turning up the radio again. "You look beautiful today. All this to impress my grandmother? You know she already loves you." He turned it down again, still amused. Liana sighed and rolled her eyes. This was going to be a very long drive.

"Jessica, you look amazing!" Liana said and hugged Art’s grandmother. His heart filled in a way he didn’t know it could. How did he never notice? How did he not notice how much attention Liana paid to such an important figure in his life? And so for a few hours, they sat and played cards and Scrabble with his grandmother and her two friends, and they listened to gossip about the seniors at the nursing home. Liana was so good. So attentive. So present.

"Lia," his grandmother started when the three of them were left alone, "at your wedding, I won't be there, but say a few words about me so that Art’s grandfather hears from his grave and gets jealous." She tossed it out casually. As if everything in this scenario was self-evident; It was clear to her they would get married, it was clear to her she wouldn't be there, and it was clear to her that her deceased husband would hear.

Art chuckled quietly, watching Liana and seeing how red she was. Even her ears had changed color.

"Don’t worry, Grandma. We’ll talk about you the whole event." If he had been less smug about everything, he would have shut up. But he couldn’t stop himself. He had to see if he could make her blush even more. If there was another button he could press to make her release what she had against him, so eventually he could get back into her life.

"When Art gets married, Jessica, you’ll be there and hold his hand. And at my wedding, you’ll be the guest of honor." Liana said, trying to steady her voice. Art chuckled. The shameless bastard just chuckled. The look Liana shot at him would have killed any sane person. But Art didn’t consider himself very sane at that moment, and certainly not someone who feared an angry look from Liana Levy.

"She’s dismissing you, Arthur. What are you doing about it?" His grandmother looked amused by Liana’s embarrassment and Art’s feigned indifference. "Don’t worry, Grandma, I’m on it," he smiled and hugged her.

"Lia, promise me you’ll keep calling me even when you’re far away and fall in love in Europe," Jessica looked at her with a penetrating gaze. "Yes, Lia, promise her." Art said, causing her to look at him for a moment. At this stage, he wasn’t sure he would survive the day, but it would probably be a sweet way to die. "Jessica. If until now I’ve called once a week, without missing, nothing will change that." Liana hugged her again, and they moved towards the car.

"You're calling my grandma once a week?" Art didn’t know this. Why didn’t anyone tell him this? He wanted to scream. Since they were kids, Art was sure he wanted to be much closer to Liana than she wanted to be. And that was fine, he got used to the piercing looks, sarcastic words, and eye rolls. Stanford changed that. Stanford made them equals. They saw each other in the same way. They wanted to be close in the same way. They were in each other’s space. For him, Liana's change happened at Stanford. The change happened this year. And then he discovered things like this. He discovered that Liana was calling his dying grandma once a week and helping her pass the time.

"Can you fucking answer me?!" He raised his voice. He didn’t want to raise his voice. But his patience for the silent treatment, his punishment, had run out. He felt like a little boy who was told to stand in the corner for four months and expected not to explode.

"Arthur-" she sounded bored when he cut her off. "Art." He said firmly and made a sharp U-turn on the highway, driving in the opposite direction of their home. "What the fuck?! Art! Where are you going?" she asked, a bit scared by his change in approach. He didn’t answer her and continued driving until he stopped in a place empty of people, surrounded by sand with no building in sight.

"Where are we, Art?!" she asked for the umpteenth time.

Art got out of the car and closed his eyes, breathing heavily, hearing her get out too. "I'm not joking with you. Take me home. Now!" She crossed her arms under her chest, and he approached her, invading her personal space.

Liana managed to see his eyes up close for the first time in months. They were filled with tears. Her initial instinct was to reach out a hand to his cheek, but she restrained herself from moving. Their breathing was heavy as they examined each other. Art's first tear fell on his cheek.

Every bone in Liana's body screamed at her to hug him. Every internal and external limb of hers burned with the need to ease his pain. But she knew he didn’t deserve it. She knew that whatever was happening now, Art deserved to feel it.

"Please, Liana." He mumbled. His voice was broken. This wasn’t how Art planned this day. He planned to dress nicely, drive to his grandma’s, remind Liana of all the things he was good at. Remind her that he was much more kind than he was mean. Instead, he was crying. Instead, he was looking at her and realizing that in a few days she would leave, and maybe he would never feel the same way for anyone else. Maybe he didn’t want to feel all these emotions for anyone else. Maybe only with Liana could he feel so much.

Art slowly dropped to his knees. Not taking his eyes off Liana. Her breathing became even heavier, and her eyes filled with tears too. She had never seen such a thing. A person willing in the middle of the street to drop to their knees before another person, while in tears.

"Art, get up..." she mumbled, wanting to look around to see that no one was coming, but afraid to take her eyes off the scene before her. Her instinct won this time, and she placed both her hands on the sides of his face, wiping away the endless tears, while Art, like an addict to the feeling, leaned into the warm and gentle touch with his eyes closed.

"Do you even know what you did to me?" she asked, and he opened his eyes, looking at her with longing. With a desire to absorb everything she had to say to him. "You ruined me, Art Donaldson. You broke me." She said, and he stood up slowly. "I'm sorr-" he started, and her hand found his cheek with force. Liana wasn’t a violent person. Liana is not a violent person. "You have no right to ask for forgiveness." She stated. "That was the first time I slept with someone, Art." Her voice sounded like the cry of a wounded animal. "Did you think about what such a formative experience would do to my sex life? Did you think about the trust issues I would have? That I would never be able to trust anyone like I trusted you?" She cried so hard she couldn’t resist his embrace while his crying intensified.

"I will never be able to behave the way I behaved with you. You used me to get back at Patrick. You used me to win a competition only you participated in." She pushed him a bit away from her, and they stood facing each other again, both trying to breathe. After a few minutes of this, silence and piercing looks, Art dropped to his knees again, and Liana looked everywhere but at him. With the last of her strength, she tried to resist the magnetic pull Art Donaldson has on her. "Li, look at me." His broken voice commanded her without commanding, he couldn’t command anything for anyone. He was on his knees for her. "You're pathetic." She said. Without blinking. She never talked like that to anyone. All he could do was nod and hug her leg while she looked up at the sky, again with tears in her eyes, running a finger through one of his curls. "I will be good. I promise." He said what he demanded from her every time they were intimate with each other. Their gazes crossed once more, "I will be good even when you’re not here. I will be good for you."

HEYYYYYYYYY How are we doing with that gap of 2 days? I hope it was worth the wait. I hope that you're not getting tired of this story yet 'cause I'm still obsessed with them all, but I don't want you guys to feel like I'm dragging the entire thing. Patrick and Liana are going to London in the next part. Who's excited??? You're always welcome to the comments or the ask box and have a chat with me. also, taglist is open if you want :)

taglist: @marley1773 @ruyaas-world @apolloscastellan @primlovesdilfs @fangirl-kimora @serenadingtigers @imbabycowboy @do-it-for-kicks @izzywags478 @4deline08 @igotmajordaddyissues @jackierose902109 @ganana @yoitsme-04 @swetearss

[kurishiri]

05 . . . don’t look at anyone but me ˗ˏˋ🪞´ˎ˗

— this translation may not be 100% accurate or may contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost or claim these as your own!

— cw: let’s just say there’s a reason why this needs the most heart sends 👌

Some days had passed since Vogel came, and this was a happening of that afternoon——

(What are they talking about over there...)

Hiding behind a pillar, I tried to listen in on Nika and Ring’s conversation.

(I only came across them by chance, and yet I couldn’t help myself from hiding here anyway.)

That said, they have come all the way here as goodwill ambassadors, so I couldn’t afford to do anything rude in front of them...

(It wouldn’t be good to push them away before I even get to know them.)

While still lost in the realm of my own thoughts,

Alfons: Now whatever are you doing here?

Kate: Hyah!

Surprised by the fingers that suddenly grazed my neck, I jumped back.

And when I turned around, there Alfons stood, wearing an expression that looked as though he had found an amusing toy.

Ring: Is it just me, or were there voices?

(Oh no, we’re going to get found at this rate!)

Having turned toward my voice, they were approaching our way, and in a panic, I——

Alfons: Oh, dear me.

I grabbed Alfons’ arm and pushed him into an empty room.

(I-I hid again...)

When I heard their footsteps from the other side of the door grow more distant, I was hit with a bout of relief for a moment, when...

Alfons: Goodness gracious, to bring me into a bedroom with nobody else around... dare I say, you do so embrace a heart of indecency...!

Kate: T-that’s not it!

...Alfons looked as though he was having quite a lot of fun, and I couldn’t help but feel perplexed at the sight.

Alfons: So? Would you be so kind as to tell me what you were doing outside?

Kate: ...I just happened to run into those two members of Vogel together, and I was listening in on their conversation.

Alfons: Listening in on them... let me rephrase my previous statement: I see now that you embrace every and all sides of indecency, indeed.

Kate: And as I’ve been saying! That isn’t the case!

I turned on my heel to try and leave the room, but——

Alfons: I cannot help but think you are akin to a devil in a human’s skin when I see you expressing interest in other men, even while I am before your eyes.

Kate: How many times do I have to say—wait, what?

Alfons took the key that was laying on the shelf and locked the door before approaching the window,

out of which he threw the key.

Kate: W-what are you doing!?

Alfons: Well, you see, the door cannot be opened without a key from both the out- and inside.

On the doorknob there was only a small keyhole...

Alfons: And as a cherry on top, it would be quite a stretch to say you would survive a fall from this height.

...and I saw from the window that the ground was very much far off; even using the curtains as leverage wouldn’t help.

Alfons: And hence, we find ourselves here, stuck with no way out.

Closing the window, he turned toward me with a full smile on his face, and I thought my words were going to lose themselves, but...

Kate: Why would you do such a thing...

Alfons: I feel that because it is you we are talking about, had you not been found out, you would have gone to talk with them out of guilt for eavesdropping, no?

Kate: That...

(Well, he isn’t wrong about that.)

The reason I hid and listened in on them,

was not really because of some guilty conscience, but more so I had been waiting for an opportunity to reach out to them.

Alfons: If I recall, Harrison did say that they were lying about something.

Letting out a sigh, he approached me, his fingers grazing my ear.

Kate: !

My body strained at the tickling sensation, and I grabbed his wrist so he couldn’t touch the nape of my neck...

Alfons: It matters not what said lie is, but it is in your best interest to exercise caution.

...but the fingers touching my ears made me feel good.

Alfons: And that goes twice for you, as you have nothing shielding your heart.

I bit my lip, and Alfons’ leather-gloved fingers made their way atop my lips.

Alfons: And what if this lie they are telling is meant to deceive you?

A: For example, wheedling you for their goal, and then like this——

Kate: Mn…

His fingers slid down from my lips to the back of my neck, before going through my collarbone to my chest, tracing the curves of my breasts…

A: ——they can give you this kind of pleasure, drown you in it.

Kate: Ah…

His fingers then made their way down lower before rubbing the place between my legs over my skirt.

Alfons: They may very well be aiming for you, to make you go past the point of no return.

Kate: Hngh, ah—

Slowly, yet surely, his sweet kiss melted my thoughts, and I grasped the shirt before me in response.

Every time our tongues intertwined, an obscene sound resonated in the room…

Kate: Mnn!

…and the fingers that had been between my legs pushed down on my sensitive bud from over my clothes.

Alfons: Oh, dear, to see you succumb so easily to pleasure like this, I cannot help but worry.

A: …All that said, though, the one who rendered you like this was none other than me.

My legs, which had been trembling from the pleasure, suddenly felt weak.

Kate: ——!

I felt his fingers push harder this time, and I sank down to the floor in response.

Kate: Al…fons——

When I tried to raise my head, I felt something cool on my fingers.

It was the key that was supposed to have been thrown out.

(Wait a minute…)

I turned sharply to look at the doorknob.

There, I saw not a keyhole, but a lever that could lock from the inside,

and when I looked out the window, there were flowers just outside waving in the garden, and I remembered that we were on the first floor.

Alfons: I see you have come to the inevitable realization?

(Yes, that you used your ability on me when you spoke to me and touched my neck then!)

Kate: But why did you use your ability…

When I looked at him in protest, Alfons, who was on his knees on the floor, averted his gaze.

Alfons: …Simply because I found it quite irking at best that you were making a show of interest toward other men.

Kate: Eh…

Alfons: Why not just forget about Vogel? I am here before your eyes, and yet you have the luxury to be looking away?

Seeing him say his qualms with a frown on his face was endearing in a way.

Alfons: Well? Do you still have the time and energy to talk with those people?

The fingers that held my sleeves resembled that of a child trying not to have his precious thing stolen away.

(I was a little angry, yes, but now I can’t seem to find it in me to stay that way.)

After all, I got to see an expression I didn’t usually see on him, and my heart felt like it was going to jump out from affection.

Kate: No, I don’t. Whenever you’re here, I can’t look anywhere else.

When I said that, the arms that had been grasping my sleeves wrapped around my back, and…

Kate: Wah——

His hands made their way below my bottom, lifting me up and dropping me on the bed.

He had an expression that looked as though he was having fun, albeit somewhat different from the one he wore before, as he took off his gloves.

Alfons: Just like that, you need only look at me, and not another soul.

On the white sheets, two people’s shadows came together.

Fin.

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full masterlist 🪞

[ohthewh0rror]

THEO NOTT: DATING HEADCANONS

A/N: Theo is practically irrelevant to the HP series and almost entirely fan made, so this is just how I characterize him. Anyway, here’s my second favorite boy (right behind Tom).

His reputation doesn’t mean as much to him as other pure-bloods and Slytherins, so you being in a different house or being a half-blood/muggleborn isn’t going to deter him from wanting to be with you.

Will not introduce you to his father if he has any say in it, ESPECIALLY if you’re anything other than a pure-blood.

Might be hesitant to introduce you to his friends because if they offend you he will not hesitate to confront them about it, but would rather not get into a fight with his friends if he can help it.

Would 110% fight another witch/wizard over you. Typically just hexes them, but if another wizard takes it too far he’s more than willingly to fight the muggle way.

Controversial: doesn’t smoke that often, only once a day after classes end, but always invites you. He likes to hear you talk about your day, doesn’t matter how “boring” you thought it was.

Lover boy through and through. You are this man’s everything.

You once mentioned that your father used to write your mom love letters and how sweet you thought it was. So for the next 2 weeks Theo gave you little love notes throughout the day everyday.

He’s on the quiet side, so you’re the one carrying the conversation usually, but does chime in to make sure you know he’s actually listening.

Doesn’t come from a loving family, so will greedily eat up any kind touch/word you give to him.

Absolutely melts if you make/buy him any type of jewelry. He has so much money and could afford the most expensive jewelry the wizarding world has to offer, but would choose the cheap beaded bracelet you made him instead any day.

The type to do self-care with you. Face mask? Cool. Manicures? He already has a color picked out. Need help with your hair? Just tell him what to do.

Like everyone he is still human and does have negative traits.

Theo knows he is witty and has a sharp tongue when provoked and he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. So he’d rather you be angry that he’s not taking the conversation about how you feel seriously than hurt your feelings.

Theo wishes he could say he trust you completely, but his upbringing has left him with trust issues. There’s always a little voice in the back of his mind saying you’re going to fuck him over or leave him one day.

Tries his best not to listen to it. But can’t help but read into your every move, so if he gets suspicious of you that’s when the petty side of him comes out.

It pretty much consists of him accusing you and bringing up things you’re insecure about / struggling with.

Only stops if you walk away or as soon as he sees your tears.

Will apologize, but his apologies are a little on the awkward side, so they feel insincere.

Controversial (again): not kinky in bed, he’s actually fairly vanilla. The kinkiest thing this man does is fuck you from the back. Is willing to experiment though if you really want him to.

Uses typical pet names on you: babe/baby/love. But if he’s looking to tease you he calls you ‘princess’.

Father/Marriage bonus:

GIRL DAD!!! GIRL DAD ALERT!!!

Almost threw up when he first held her because of adrenaline and fear of accidentally dropping her.

Is pretty hands on, helps in any way he can when he’s not working.

Spoils his daughter to hell and back. No one tells his little girl ‘no’.

Married you a few years after your daughter is born. You two had been together since your years at Hogwarts, but the both of you wanted to take it slow as you were both still young. When you got pregnant it was honestly an accident, and once the baby was born you were so wrapped up in being new parents that marriage wasn’t crossing either of your minds.

[soapels]

but my hair smells of war

simon “ghost” riley x female reader

tw: nsfw, mutual pining, size kink (i guess?), reader is a jittery virgin, soft! ghost, lovey! ghost, but there’s an overall dark, forlorn theme, (angst??) slight paranoia, 18+ characters

notes: my first cod fic ever :,) bear with me here while i learn to navigate the characterizations! anyways the title is really inspired by that quote by warsan shire! do tell if you enjoyed & let me know who you’d like to see next (^_^)’’ (soap + konig brainrot is REAL lately…)

all hearts and reblogs are very appreciated!

Just outside the safehouse, crickets chirp.

It’s a pleasant backdrop to the otherwise quiet area of the stables, hay so itchy it even manages to prickle at your skin through the thick fatigues, slivers of the moon filtering in through the windows.

It’s been a long day, you’d seen awful things again (and you know this is just your call of duty but bloodshed- no matter how repetitive- never gets old, never gets easy), and up until around fifteen minutes ago, you were still on the run outside, tired; veins pumped to the hilt with adrenaline, (sometimes you wonder if these levels are healthy) and admittedly quite fearful (that never gets old either).

The path you’ve chosen is frightening at the best of times.

But now you can rest. Even if just for a moment, even if sleep comes seldom or you have to beckon it until closer to sunrise- even if tomorrow, when you return to the battle and the chaos and the ever-changing future, you won’t make it out alive.

There’s some quiet chatter in the safehouse, unconsciousness to you is like nirvana and nirvana is rare, near unobtainable, but you can vaguely make out the low rumble of Ghost’s voice, and more clearly- the lighthearted quips of Soap- and it oddly puts you at ease. Nudges you along to that inviting darkness, bones so pleasantly weak and ready for that nothingness, even if the hay is uncomfortable and you’re sure at least a spiderweb or two is lurking somewhere above in the rafters (because it’s just too dim to see, and the wooden beams block most of the moonlight from here).

You’ve never trusted Graves. (What’re you thinking? Go to sleep.) …Not entirely, at least, and the Shadows are up to no good lately- you don’t know this for sure, to be honest you’ve said no peep of your niggling qualms- but you feel it from deep within that something’s… wrong.

Or maybe it’s paranoia, maybe, most-certainly, it’s just that warrior disease settling in. It’s dark out, and you’re exhausted, and your heart always feels so laden when you’re all alone and the gunfire ceases. That’s why these awful thoughts creep in on you, you convince yourself, lashes fluttering as you approach a hopefully pleasant dream. That’s why your mind sabotages you like this.

Your comrades aren’t enemies- don’t shut them out. No one fights alone. (And now, the last thought you have before drifting off completely, is oddly of Ghost, and how his voice would rasp as he said those familiar words, and the way the foreboding skull of his mask shifts when he speaks. And that damned glow of his eyes, haunting… strangely-beautiful, whenever they flicker over to you. So cold yet distant too, like an iceberg peeking above a frozen tide, silent but fatal if you’re not careful enough to steer clear of it. They don’t call him Ghost for no reason, though you think Simon Riley is a rather befitting name too- because if he had to have one, if he had to be real, then that’d be it.)

And you’re almost there, a warm fuzziness within- so vague and shapeless as you fade from reality- almost to that quiet bliss. One of the things you learned over the taxing span of your military years- sleep is by no means a small luxury.

There’s a shuffling beside you. Faint, ever so slight. Shouldn’t be enough to wake you. But it is. It’s enough to have your eyelids flying open, all exhaustion crumbling away as you—

“Shh, sergeant,” a gruff voice hushes, and recognition clicks. “It’s me,” he’s stood at the edge of the bale, which is frankly closer than you anticipated, propping his gun against a beam before sitting himself down. You swear you feel his body heat as the backside of his thick fatigues brush against your thigh, instinctively drawing your legs closer to give him more room.

Partially confused, very caught off guard, and admittedly a bit flustered, you blink away from him, his silhouette brimmed with the pale, conniving moon as you muster up a coherent response.

“Ghost,” is all you manage to breathe. But he seems to be fine with that, those dark, untelling eyes regarding you cooly as your knuckles sheepishly brush away exhaustion from your lashes.

“Sorry, did-… are we off already?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head softly, and even his gravelly voice has dipped into something gentler, not as harsh around the edges. To see Ghost like this- so unguarded (not entirely, never, but it’s still surprising)- comrade or not, is… different, to say the least. Not in a bad way, quite the opposite. Still.

“Get some rest ���Didn’t mean to wake ya.” His whisper is calming; you trust him fully, wholly, you think if he asked for your life right now you’d give it to him. Easily. Without falter. Because despite it all, his rough exterior, his sometimes-lethal temper and his unforthcoming behavior towards others, you know he’d do the same.

(He’s killed for you. Save you too many times to count.)

The crickets and cicadas thrum, but despite it all- the soothing wildlife outside and the soft rustling of hay as across the stable, Soap situates himself for the night- you’re focused on the man sat beside you, not even a foot away as he regards you almost absently. (But you’ve learned that nothing about Ghost is absent.)

And you want to listen to him, belatedly settling your head down on the bale, you really do, but there’s just something off in the air as those deep-chestnut eyes sweep over you; relaxed, too relaxed, almost as if nobody was behind them (but you know that to be false, too), a peculiar, unfamiliar drawl to them as he appraises you.

You’re dusted pale, feathered with the moon like the stars stepped down to personally kiss you, and Ghost watches you for a second more, your fluttering lashes- making no move to close- your lips, the slope of your cheek and the curls of hair framing your face- and his black skull balaclava shifts.

“Sleep, sergeant.”

“I don’t think I can,” you murmur, so quiet and faint, yet your voice manages to resonate with him regardless. It earns a halfhearted snort from him.

“Haven’t even tried, have ya?”

Maybe there’s a sliver of jest there.

You take the opportunity to make a harmless tease at him, a sweet little smile carving into your cheeks, “Well, I almost succeeded until you came along.”

His silence isn’t rewarding, but you both know you’re right, and a heavy question weasels its way into your mind. And you know he can sense it, that unspoken thickness as your lids battle exhaustion, and you also understand that Ghost doesn’t appreciate dishonesty- or a lack of divulgence where it’s due.

So you ask him.

“There was… something you wanted? If you want me to do something-“ maybe you should be embarrassed, how quick you are to jump the gun if it meant helping your Lieutenant, “I-I’ll do it. I will.”

(How are you still so sweet? After all you’ve seen? Why aren’t you hardened? Why are you the bunny in all the places wherein he’s the wolf? How is it that you still manage to glow, even when you very well might be teetering on the precipice of an untimely, surely-brutal death? Simon doesn’t know. He doesn’t. He’s good at reading the room, digging into people’s minds- even the most fucked up ones, especially so- and finding out everything dark they’ve ever felt. With you it’s different. He often struggles to piece together a conclusion from just a smile you send him, wondering if there’s another layer to it. Stilling in his tracks whenever you laugh- so soft like you always do, pleasant like euphony- feeling something unbidden in his chest start to weigh.)

His chest puffs out a little at that, and he huffs low. And Ghost looks away from you, those umber eyes trailing out towards the window up above and somewhere behind you, and for a moment he just goes impossibly still, like a dog waiting for a sound, purposely searching for something there in the wilderness that doesn’t belong.

And you can’t help but feel like the two of you are somewhat out of place also, yet then again, if you were to think someone in the world had to share your loneliness with you, it’d be Ghost. Always. (Because you feel that you know him. He doesn’t have to say a word, his eyes say nothing, but simultaneously they scream everything too. All at once. All in one long wail.)

“No,” is all he says. All gruff and rasping. But soft too, somehow. A disinclined slump to his broad shoulders he only allows you and the team to be privy to (speaking of, Soap’s kneeing a few haybales together now, squishing them in so he’s got space to roll when he inevitably ends up stirring tonight)- but even then, it’s rare.

His eyes meets yours again, all shadows with a small, conniving highlight, brimmed with his balaclava.

“Scoot ova’.” he says it so simply, but your brain goes utterly blank for a fleeting moment.

His accent is quite thick- maybe you’ve lost yourself in it again, or fell too hard in the caramel pool of his eyes, or perhaps you’re just too tired to comprehend him right now- but once it clicks, you’re obedient to his wish. Right away.

The sound of clothes rustling fills the otherwise quiet atmosphere as you shimmy yourself all the way against the wall of hay to your side, letting Ghost- all big and tall- settle in beside you as you curl up to yourself. You’d burrow inside yourself if you could, face flushing warm as your Lieutenant’s body knocks and brushes against yours, and before you know it, the gentleness of shared breathing descends over you both as your noses point to the rafters. Dark, and silent. Comfortable, but at the same time not. A wordless dance of being convinced of your composure to having it singlehandedly ripped away whenever he made the faintest move beside you.

Ghost feels just slightly similar to drowning; just that cold world beneath the waves, hurtled into a murky tide, spun beneath turbulent waters. Uneasy, unsure of where the hell you are- only that you don’t know how you got in and you don’t know how to get out. Lungs aching, chest pouring…

But he feels like the merciful gasp of air when you finally resurface, too. That glimmer of hope, that split second thought of thank God I made it out alive as your chin thrashes over the ripples.

He’s the violent ocean and the life-ring thrown to you all at once. He is the silent chaos and he is the overwhelming relief- and he isn’t a kind man but the good side of him always seems to somehow win out.

“Ghost?” You breathe again. Not sure of even why, and your body quivers with sweat and nerves because Lieutenant’s so strong and he’s laying beside you (this isn’t even odd, this has happened before- sleeping with the team in cramped, awkward places that leave literally no room for complaints, but this time it felt different, like he was somehow closer).

His breaths even out in the pleasant air. And his silence could perhaps be welcoming on its own, but he deigns you with a reply anyway.

“What?” All gruff and low, thick yet- for you, now in the fall of night- gentle too. All Ghost.

(…But maybe partially Simon Riley, too, but you have trouble distinguishing two things when you’re hardly certain one even exists.)

“…” You chew on the words you want to say- or maybe you need to say them- but you don’t know what it is that sticks to your tongue like glue, and you’re rendered stupid, jaw-gaping, for a solid moment.

So you settle for simple. You settle for something good that will suffice, something pleasant and sweet but nothing that tiptoes too close to Ghost (you’re already close enough, and he did choose this bale with you, but still, you never know with him, and he’s not the sort of man you want to question).

“Goodnight.”

You’re sure he makes a soundless scoff at that. And for a splitsecond, you decide to take a peek over, because your stupid curiosity wins out and you just have to see him one last time before a permanent stillness ensues- sheepish hues darting over to his in the dimness—

“Night,” (you think you hear a scintilla of wry humor there) “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

—Only to find they’re already on you.

︻┳═一

The next time you and your Lieutenant are ‘forced’ to bunk together is closer to three weeks later, in a ratty shed by the river.

You turn away from Ghost just in time to miss him dragging out a body (finished him with a silencer, but it doesn’t matter anyway. his buddies wouldn’t have heard. his buddies are dead) as you awkwardly look around the decrepit place.

“Fix us up a place to call it a night, soldier.”

You’re quick to obey, chirping off an obedient yes sir as you take a few steps into the old storage shed.

It’s hard to see, and this time there’s not much moonlight to work with (when the door’s closed, it’ll go utterly dark), but with your scope’s flash you spot a disarray of pallets off to the corner, and you waste no time in hauling them together. You find a few cloths- puffy vests and discarded life-jackets, toss ‘em on the wood, and call it a cot.

“There we are,” you say with a smile when he inevitably walks in, door swinging shut as he does one last quick once-over before approaching.

“Good work,” (you hate the way your chest blooms at his simple praise; you’re a soldier, aren’t you? not some stupid schoolgirl) “Now let’s huddle up and kip down. Soap and the others cleared out the second field.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod curtly, fingers hesitating for a split second before you switch off the flash, the old shed blanketed in darkness as you set your rifle down and maneuver onto the makeshift bed (you weren’t complaining, though, you’ve both slept on far worse). Ghost follows in suit, his barely-clear silhouette lowering down onto the pallets with you, minding his muscle as he settles beside you.

…And for a while, it’s nice.

It doesn’t feel as awkward as it used to months- even just weeks, ago, yet still, sometimes you swear there’s an odd thickness to the air, an unprecedented drawl of tension that, like smoke, wisps by before dissipating. Like it was never there. (Yet the smell lingers, traces of something potent and simmering in your nostrils, caught in your clothes like gunpowder. Your hair smells of war and running, and Ghost smells so similar that it almost hurts, yet he’s more charred than you, you can feel it, and if you are a solider of team 141 than he is the bombs and shelter and war and relief.)

(No, perhaps he is the battlefield.)

That strange whiff of something close to vulnerability drifts in the space between you- wanting to say something, but having no words to offer, or maybe it’s a different feeling- like when you want to add something funny to the conversation, but it suddenly inches by and you’re left in your uncertainty, holding onto the joke with a tenuous grip. (Tenuous, yes, but you still want to say it, don’t you? You’re still looking for a window to speak your mind?)

And you’re sure Ghost can sense it too, because from beside you where he lies, he shifts just a bit more than usual, antsy and unable to find a comfortable position, his gear brushing against yours as you gnaw on the insides of your cheeks, feeling the same way.

“Lieutenant-“ “Sergeant-“

He turns over to you, and you see something in those dark eyes that glints as you glance over to him. His hues widen slightly, but whatever startle you thought you might’ve gleaned there flickers out and you’re once more left in the silence- this time, somewhat awkward, waiting for the other to break it.

You called him, and he called you. But now, neither of you return it.

Surprising perhaps the both of you, after what seems like forever passes and Ghost is the one to clear his throat, rasping out a quick, dismissive goodnight when your lips finally snap open to speak-

“G-Ghost—“

“Sleep, soldier. Tomorrow’ll be hell, and m’not carryin’ ya if y’legs give out.”

(He would. Of course he fucking would.)

︻┳═一

Soap and Ghost murmur for a bit with each other, tying off the threads of the last mission as you hesitantly approach. You don’t exactly remember Soap ever making it last night, but hours before sunrise you stirred in your slumber, and are now eighty-percent convinced you heard him settling in the otherwise quiet shed, exchanging a tired grunt or two with Ghost.

And it shouldn’t bother you. The men, you mean, because you’ve known them for months now, fought and bled and killed together, stuck to each other like glue as you endured all the shitty times and awful memories. But your fingers tighten around your rifle just that much more when you near, because Ghost is just so big and strong and the two mingle together for an unseemly yet fatal duo. (They’d never hurt you, never, and you know this damn well, but you’ve always had a shy nature and their respective sets of eyes never get any easier to stare at- you think sometimes you prefer the barrel of a gun over those sage, umber voids.)

Soap’s the first to spot you, those oceanic blues drifting over Ghost’s shoulder, rippling with what you suspect to be genuine mirth as you stop a foot short of the two.

“G’mornin’, sleepyhead,” he greets with a vaguely-boyish grin that sort of twinkles, eyes running over your dewy lashes, slightly-mussed hair and the crooked bend of your straps and gear bands. You smile sheepishly in lieu of a reply, giving him a tipsy little nod that his smile deepens at before your lips part open.

(And you’re afraid your voice will quiver or give out entirely when Ghost’s eyes, sunken beneath his skull mask- but just as haunting and intricate- snake over to you. But, thank God, it doesn’t.)

“Y-You got a spare ‘clava?”

Soap’s chest puffs and swells briefly when he scoffs halfheartedly, those gorgeous hues never slipping from yours for too long as he rests a hand along the butt of his pistol in his pocket, the other dipping back into the bag slung over his shoulders. (Big and broad, his build is similar to Lieutenant’s, but Ghost is taller and holds more mass. Both are purely muscle, though, all death and chaos- Soap’s just always been more friendly with his destruction, delivers it with a laugh or a pat on the back.)

“Y’embarrassed? Don’t think I’ve ever seen a bed head quite like y’rs, lass.” He says it with a playful chuckle, stepping forward (and his legs are long, he reaches you in an instant) and proffering the black mask out to you. You accept it with soft thanks, cheeks warm from embarrassment and perhaps some odd sort of pride as he ruffles your hair and smiles. Like, really smiles, the skin around his eyes wrinkling just slightly as he nods, “there y’are, lass,” he says, “we’ll all meet up back at base, yeah?”

“You’re leaving already?” You chirp highly, traces of dejection caught in your voice (aw, you sad he’s leaving? makes two of you), eyes all starry and confused as he toys with the straps of his vest and quirks his head to the side some. “‘Fraid so, got some loose ends to tie- won’t be long, promise.”

You accept his words with a small, silent nod, offering him a gentle, if not somewhat sleepy smile as he reaches a fist forward, knuckles you lightly on your collar, and belatedly brushes past you. The heels of his boots clip dully against the floor when he reaches the janky door of the shed, daylight weaseling in through the splits and cracks of the wooden walls. Bathing the three of you in a golden porridge of early morning and twittering birds and that odd emptiness of your stomach that always churns at around six o’clock.

With one last pleasant glance to Soap (his cerulean gaze seems to linger and corrode into you, somehow) you allow him to trade a simple goodbye with Ghost, wasting no more time in slipping the mask over your head as Johnny did the same. (Even in your head, it feels forbidden to call him that- only Ghost is allowed to- you don’t know why, but were never brave enough to beg the question.)

And he departs. And the once-comfortable silence betrays you and Ghost yet again.

Still, he turns over to you, letting the door shut, watching as you lower yourself onto the pallets and fix your shoelaces. (But your thumbs tremble, wrists twitching, nervous, like the task is foreign, like it’s not one of the simplest things you’ve ever done in this business of war.)

And those brown, all-seeing eyes sweep over you (you can feel it), those thick boots of his brushing over the dusty floor as he makes his way over.

Your hues collide with his, something off in the air- a calling, or a warning maybe, but it’s heavy and the look he meets you with just before he approaches plants a pit in your belly- frightful and needy- feeling so small and perfectly useless as it builds and builds and-

“Sergeant.”

“Yes?” Breathless without any good reason.

You wonder if he feels it, too. That weight in his tummy that buckles his knees, makes them knock together, dizzies his head. Makes his heart skip faster. But the thought is dismissed too quickly, because you’re certain it’s fear you feel, strong and overwhelming- too great a respect to label. And Ghost isn’t afraid, clammy palms have never been a part of his brand. He doesn’t hesitate.

Yet, now, that all seems like rubbish. Every preconceived idea of him you held withering away as Ghost does just what you knew he never would. His hand, all big and capable (stained with blood, too) hesitates.

But this time- unlike all those sleepless nights where you felt skin brush against yours unbidden, his eyes burning against your quiet profile as his fingers contemplated over your face- it reaches you. Fulfills what it wanted to for a long time coming.

And now you’re breathless for an entirely different reason. “Ghost,” you whisper, so thin it might break- and your voice does shake, like a leaf in the wind. There’s something in his eyes, you notice, as they trail along you, his large palm swallowing up your cheek, gloved fingertips eroding the thin fabric over your skin in the best way possible.

Every lick of pain comes with a spark of pleasure, a needy, gentle ache masquerading as limitless fear.

(But those deep-brown eyes know no limits.)

“You afraid of me?” Ghost is a lot of things. But now you have a niggling, loud feeling that who you’re gaping back at now isn’t he or his mask, but rather what’s beneath it.

You shakily stand, maybe to grasp the illusion of having some control over yourself, or perhaps just to get closer to the door if you wanted to make some stupid excuse to leave. “Simon- I-“

He cuts you off with a low huff, but it sounds more like a groan than anything else- all displeased yet thrilled all at once. It shuts you up. It paralyzes you. (Barely keeping your gaze on his simmering one, you want to lie on your fucking back, and for the life of you, you don’t know why.)

When he says nothing, just continues regarding you with that weird fucking look (it’s not bad- it’s good, you think, but terrifying too) and lets his hand finally slip off your cheek, you try again.

“Simon,” (Simon hears you swallow, watches your throat bob, all tender where he’s cold, soft where he’s covered in jagged heaps of ice) “I- W-We should go.”

Ghost takes a pensive moment to respond.

“We don’t even got our mission yet, do we?”

Your confusion must be palpable, brows pinching together in a cute little knot that has his belly doing backflips as your eyes sparkle up at him. There’s an odd twinkle to his own, broad chest swelling out for a bit longer than a breath should as your lips part open.

“We-…” (f-fuck, just speak, soldier!) “We’re meeting everyone at base, yes?”

Earning no response from him, and the silence quickly killing you- you add:

“I- I thought we… Were meeting up, all of us.”

He grunts at that, low and quiet. And you look up at him like he owns the world, like there’s nobody else in it but him, and your eyes are starry and so unapologetically warm that it burns him from the inside out. His chest aches, he’s wanted you for too long a time to not act on it, to not do something about it, but for once in a very long time, Simon’s… afraid.

Or maybe uneasy is the better word, because he doesn’t want to hurt you, he’s so big and you’re so small and sometimes he worries that if he were to touch you without gloves on, you’d wither completely.

He’s used to that game. His kisses are gunpowder. His love is death, he believes it because he’s seen it. Everywhere. All the time.

But he can’t help it, not now. Not when he’s got you all alone and it’s like the birds chirping outside are telling him to fucking do something already- and Simon knows if he doesn’t make a move, someone else will. They’ll swoop in and steal you away, scoop you off your feet and treat you like a princess- the only way you ever should be- and you’ll be happy and smiling and so fucking far from him.

Safe.

…But maybe he’s selfish. He knows he’s not all that good, he wasn’t made to love or be loved- he is a product of war and brokenness and an endless cycle of pain- but maybe you can be his good thing.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters beneath his breath, “take it off.”

“What-“

“Show me your face.”

(Hah. How ironic; when every soul in the military who’s ever crossed him has wanted to say the same damn thing, but always balked before they could because his eyes alone are killer enough.)

His voice is a little rougher now, your brain registers it as an order, so with a shaky, uncertain hand, you peel off your balaclava and hold it awkwardly in your lap. And your hair’s quite messy from a wakeful night, and your skin glows ever so slightly from sweat and sleep and smeared gunpowder and your pulse is so rapid you fear it may explode.

You want to hide from him.

But, catching both of you by surprise, Simon leans in, one hand raking up his mask- stealing a blurry glimpse of his mouth- and captures your lips in his. And he doesn’t let you hide.

Run, either; he slots his hulking body up against yours, kneeling down on the wooden pallets as he lowers you atop them, making it physically impossible to wrest yourself away if he really wanted you to stay.

(And he really wants you to stay. Fuck.)

You gasp into the kiss, eyes instinctively screwing shut because you’re so fucking embarrassed and your legs feel heavy and your bones’ve gone to jelly because Simon is so big and strong and perfect and his lips are on yours.

“Simon,” you were going for a half-rebuttal, a plea for a moment to grasp just what the hell was happening. But you make a pathetic sound closer to a moan instead, all frail and cute as you whine his given name, and it makes his pants feel that much tighter, exchanging a groan into your mouth as he holds you beneath him.

And his grip is sort of awkward, you think, like he’s made the split-second decision to go all in but now he’s worried he fucked things up and you’ll end up hating him. So his tongue prods against your soft lips, hesitant, and his long lashes occasionally brush against your cheekbone, but he ultimately pulls away.

Like the recoil of a gun; sharp, sudden. There’s a blip of panic there, of what the hell did I just do. But there’s no regret. Because in Simon’s head, it had to be done- else he would’ve crumbled, else your smile would steadily become torture and someone else would’ve done it.

Your eyes are still shut when silence falls over the rundown shed and you feel the tip of his nose carve almost awkwardly in the juncture of your neck. Because you’re afraid. Because your tummy is burning and so is your face, your heart, too. Because there’s still a little unreasonable part of you that, despite feeling his lips brush against your collar, is scared that when you open them, he’ll be staring back at you- mask rucked up and all- genuinely Simon- and you don’t want to see his face if he doesn’t want you to.

“I should stop,” he murmurs into your neck. “I should stay away.” And it almost feels like it’s all over now, the fucked-up calm after the storm. The residual smoke and death on the battlefield- the smell of gunfire and metal. Water under the bridge—

“But that’d be hell.”

And he pulls the trigger again. Those lips, cold as bullet shells, colliding with yours once more. Nipping, and all tongue with the occasional clash of teeth, but it feels so fucking good and you realize with a spark of dismay that you don’t want it to stop.

Never.

“Simon,” and you’re chanting it now, all teary-eyed, lashes thick with pleasure as his mouth descends upon you, his deft fingers already working at tearing off your clothes- straps unbuckling, gear clinking softly as it rolls off the pallets and onto the floor.

Fear- respect- or whatever the hell you’ve always felt for Ghost- bleeds into something closer to… love, you think, and your chest is swelling by the time his gloved fingertips reach there, gliding over your bare skin. And you glow in the golden streaks of young sun, flesh soft and too fucking inviting to pass up on.

(He doesn’t.)

Simon leans away, then, and you dare open your eyes at the lost contact, the lower half of his face bathed in a dim-yellow, his balaclava clinging midway up the bridge of his nose. And within the cage of the printed skull (iconic and terrifying, sort of like batman- an omen of evil’s bane on the way), his brown hues glint, all hazy- far from sober as they sweep over you.

Flickering; giving out; flickering. Burning, and then lessening, sparking like a broken fuse before it becomes so hot you feel you may wither beneath him-

“Gorgeous,” he breathes.

And he’s on you again, tongue laving at your neck and chest, one hand kneading a tender breast while he takes a nipple in his mouth and sucks. You whimper; his cock throbs; he made the impromptu decision just as Soap left that he’d bring you to ruin, and his plans haven’t changed at all.

“I need you, Simon,” you confess, because you do. You need him, you’re sure of it. On the battlefield, on base, on any fucking mission you’re given. You need him above you and on you and inside you.

(Fuck, you want him inside, you want him everywhere. In the mushy, warm crevice between your ribcages and now, between the river of your thighs. Now now now—)

There’s a screech of a zipper. It jams, but he’s impatient and dislodges it quickly, flimsy metal snapping as he shrugs off some of the weight and tugs down his pants.

And, goodness, it’s big.

Flushed red at the tip, angry and twitching as he drags you in by your hips, appraising you with this simmering, foggy look that has your legs quietly splitting. But Simon’s big all over, and you’ve always known him to be stronger (so much stronger), so when he slots himself up with your core, murmurs out a string of reassurances and fuckin’ beautiful’s, you lie back and let him take you.

You, that pretty, sopping cunt, and your virginity.

And as he deflowers you (there’s a dull, hot pain, he’s so big and thick- it hurts- but he folds himself over you and hushes you and tells you it’s okay), you think he takes your heart, too. (If he didn’t already have it.)

When the sting subsides and he realizes you’re not sniffling into his shoulder anymore, he bumps up the speed, entering a controlled, careful pace, the wood jostling beneath you as he fucks and breaks and loves you.

“Please,” you beg, “give it to me.”

“Am, darlin’,” he rasps at your ear, an echo of a high-pitched sigh there. “Giving ya everything I’ve got… And you’ll fuckin’ take it, yeah?”

When you nod and tighten up around him, those velvet walls sucking him in like a perfect vice, and pair it with a mewling yes, Simon, something in his lower abdomen clutches. A pit forming there already, all hot and pleasant as your pussy overwhelms him, beckons him further in until he’s hitting deep deep deep and a pale-pink is oozing between your legs, traces of your blood caught on his pelvis as he gives it to you. Everything. All of it.

Every piece of him, every bad memory and gentle kiss on his forehead, every grey cloud and good grade and bout of death- he stuffs it all inside you. Buries his hate and love there, cock grazing your womb as he thinks about the one he came from, and all the shouting and cracked beer bottles and spatters of smoke and red on the field.

And you suddenly tighten up around him completely, eyes going wide as your mouth gapes with some unwarranted, foreign wave of pleasure.

“There y’are,” he grunts, half breathless and half utterly feral, brown voids enamored with the sight of you crumbling beneath him as his jaw falls open and his eyes roll back. All the way back, ‘til his lashes- pale in the morning sunshine- kiss the points of his cheekbones and he can’t hide the desperate groan he tries to stifle in the dip of your neck.

Gloved hands grasping at the soft fat of your hips, digging and unintentionally hurting, leaving purplish semi-circles behind as his hips stutter one last time.

And he paints you on the inside. Roots himself there. Cums with a murky moan of your name that claws itself into every vital part of your soul and refuses to let go. (You don’t want it to.)

And the longer you two lie there, bathing in the gold of early morning, the less inclined he feels to leave.

Your fingertips, delicate as snow, graze over his back, swollen lips tickling his jawbone and the side of his face as he pants into the arch of your neck.

And his nose nestles into your aura, the messy tresses and gentle wildlife of you, gloved hands marking up your hips. And Ghost thinks your hair smells of war, too.

[angelyuji]

the thing abt writing yandere fics for comic book characters is that all of them have totally different personalities in different shows and books. like take batman for example. battinson is a socially awkward, mission obsessed, billionaire who hasnt talked to a woman until selina kyle. other versions of bruce wayne went to college (dropped out), had friends and gfs (even if it was for an image), and is charming and kinda manipulative (bale!batman falls under this). and in some other comics, old man bruce wayne is an asshole who is an asshole and shitty to his kids and in others, he’s kind and forgiving and an amazing dad.

anyway what im getting to is that a lot of my yandere fics for these characters are going to be all over the place in terms of characterization.

also heres a yandere peter parker fic teehee☺️

tw // kidnapping, yandere stuff, nothing too crazy i dont think, also gwen is dead

“(y/n), just listen to me, please.” peter’s eyes water as you stare past him, a shadow of your former self. peter tries to touch you, but you jerk away. your ankle stings as the cuffs keeping you chained to his bed tightens. peter wilts, “please just listen to me. this is for your safety, (y/n).” he tries to move in front of your face, but you turn your face. you keep your eyes trained on the poster on his wall, some stupid old band. you scoff to yourself, you couldn't believe that you used to find him adorable.

peter twitches at the sound before he explodes. “JUST FUCKING LOOK AT ME.” he grabs your face, gripping you tight. you freeze, afraid to anger him further. tears drip down your face and peter softens, lightly petting your cheek.

“im sorry, im sorry.” his voice cracks. “i… i just don’t want to lose you like i lost-” he swallows, “like i lost gwen…” he breaks down, falling to his knees. he rests his head against the bed, sobs wreaking his body.

you stare at him, unsure of how to react. hesitantly, you pet his hair. his voice is muffled as he keeps his head down. “you’re the most important person in my life, (y/n).” he looks up at you: his eyes red and watering, cheeks flushed. “i can’t go through it again. i won’t.”

"please, (y/n), just- just say something. just tell me y-you won't leave me." he takes your hand and presses a kiss on the back of your hand. you feel his warm tears drip onto your skin.

you hesitate, "i..." you remember when gwen died, how grief-stricken your friend was... you couldn't break his heart again, "i won't leave you, peter. i promise." he looks up at you, his eyes watering again. he pulls himself onto the bed, much to your dismay, and pulls you into a tight hug.

"i love you so much. i love you, i love you." he continues to mumble as he buries his head in your shoulder. you sag, feeling all of the fight leave your body, and let him cry. you feel him start to nod off and his weight presses against you. you lay down, making sure not to wake him. peter continues to whisper as his eyes droop closed, "i love you, (y/n). i'll keep you safe no matter what."

[freakattack]

What do you think of Ko Takeuchi as an illustrator anyway? Do you blame him for WarioWare getting normalpilled?

LOL well either way I can't be too mad at him considering that he is the one responsible for the original lightning-in-a-bottle designs in the first place (IIRC he's been the sole credited character designer since Mega Microgrames). Truly we'll never know if the Normalbobification of warioware was a personal stylistic choice on Takeuchi's part or a push from more marketing-minded suits behind the scenes, and we will likely never know because of people like me who are fucking insane about it. I will beat a dead horse and say that his same-face syndrome for women specifically is really bad. But, to his credit, and despite the depressing new art direction of the series, his more painterly character art from Get It Together is nothing short of gorgeous:

(Yes i chose the only long orbulon in the batch DON'T look at me.)

So, overall, I don't think he's a BAD artist. The fact that I like a lot of his work actually makes the overhaul even more painful; he COULD make everyone look weird and greasy again, it would be so easy for him to make everyone look weird and greasy again. This one isn't solely an art style thing, so I'm kind of derailing here, but how did we go from this:

To this:

It just ain't right!!

But, on the other side of the coin, as much as I have qualms with the new art style and some of the changes in characterization of a lot of our guys (not just Orbulon, I think Crygor and Jimmy got hit too), I do really really love that more focus has been put on their characterization at all. Hell, Warioware Move It is basically a cartoon episode disguised as a game. That's fun as hell! From the fully-voiced Gold to the saga of Get It Together, it feels like they are really making the most of the awesome cast of weirdos at their disposal - and they always have, but now instead of all the fun stuff being relegated to websites and manuals, it's taking center stage. Something I love about warioware is just how much love the crew seems to have for these characters, and it's nice that that's still evident no matter what they look like.

[falling-star-cygnus]

HI HIII HELLO!!! -> your request has been moved over here, and i sincerely hope you enjoy!!

and i really like these ideas!! so thank you ever so much for the request, dear anonymous

i toyed with an idea like this before in my head, but i couldn't quite figure out how to articulate it ~so~ hopefully this'll help me out with Nekomata's characterization more

Spending so much time in Hollows, it's easy to forget that Billy can be harmed by things that aren't Ethereals.

Badly harmed.

Nekomata hadn't been a member of the Cunning Hares' for long, hardly long enough to be allowed into the tightly knit circle shared between the two Demara's and the android, but it's almost like that didn't matter. Especially not to Billy.

Even before she was a member, it was like he had already decided she deserved his kindness. It was a sort of bright-eyed, literally, brand of naivete that infuriated her. How dare he be so nice to her? How dare he show such kindness to the thiren that was leading them to their deaths.

How dare he make her feel so guilty, when he- when the Hares'-

Except it wasn't really the Hares' that had killed Miguel in the end, was it?

It was PubSec. And every drop of guilt Nekomata had felt was well deserved.

"Nekomata-!"

Back in the present, nowhere near a Hollow this time, she remembers being bodily shoved aside. Remembers clearly the choked down sound of pain and the crunch of metal that happened all in the blink of an eye.

Billy stood tall in front of Nekomata, stance squared as the jaws of this- yellow mutilated construction vehicle clamped around his left arm. It shook with the effort of keeping the thing from throwing him around like a chew toy- but he didn't falter.

"Kitty- you okay?" the android calls over his shoulder, his voice tight with strain and worry, "I didn't push you too hard, did I?"

"M-Me? What about you-?"

At worst her palms were a bit scraped up from hitting the asphalt, but that was more a result of the thiren's instinctual flailing than his protective insert. And he was the one in the jaws of the beast! Literally!

Care about yourself first, dummy-! Nekomata thinks venomously, shooting up to her paws as the mechanical thingamajig nearly throws her new teammate to the ground. She doesn't know what she was planning on doing, exactly, but Billy takes the decision out of her hands anyway.

He lines up a shot, somewhere between the shoulder and the armpit, and fires!

The bullet pierces the joint in a clean arc, and removes the limb with a sharp 'ting!' and a 'thud!' as it hits the concrete! It's jaws- is it the jaws? It looks more like a hand now that Nekomata isn't fearing for her life- they don't release Billy's arm until he's been nearly dragged to the floor with it.

Foolishly, the thiren had been hoping that the crunch of metal she heard was the teeth breaking on the android's build.

It wasn't.

It most definitely wasn't.

The plates of the android's arm tear like butter under the drag- ripping his red sleeve to ribbons and causing sparks to fly in firework-esque bursts. Billy brings his other hand up to one of the deeply bit teeth and tries to wrench it out without causing more damage.

Nekomata leaps to help, finally shaken out of her stupor by a startled mip of pain that Billy looses when one of the clamps catches on some wiring.

"Wait- Nekomata, your hands-"

Ah- right, the scrapes. She'd honestly forgotten about them, her gloves had absorbed most of the damage, after all- even if they'd been torn to shreds in the process.

The android tries to gently guide her hands away by the wrists, but Nekomata bullies her way closer with a hiss.

A familiar rush of anger clouds her head. His damn- friendliness. Why couldn't he just be mean?

"Billy, your arm," the thiren snaps back, tails lashing to better show her infuriation, "What're you worrying about me for, huh!? Look at you!"

"Wh- huh? But I'm fine," he exclaims, like a liar, "This can be fixed no problem! You can't!"

"That's not the point, dummy!"

Seriously! Not! The! Point! Nekomata punctuates each thought with a bap to his fluffy hair. How dare he! How. Dare. He! How dare he imply his injuries mattered any less! The nerve!

...huh. It was surprisingly soft.

Before she even realizes what she's doing, her hand simply- ruffles it from side to side. The android sputters in confusion under her ministrations.

"Nekomata!?"

"Shut up!"

Billy shuts up.

The two stay there in silence for a few more minutes, and eventually the thiren moves back to help him free what's left of his arm. He doesn't push her away this time, even though he's clearly not happy with the agitation of her scrapes.

He could be missing a limb- and he's worried about her. Her, who hasn't even been a member of the Hares' a full three months!

Stupid, big hearted, stupid android.

"You know," Nekomata starts, even though she doesn't really know where she's going with this, she just wants him to get it already, "it doesn't matter that you can be put together again. It still happened."

Billy stills under her hands with a surprised little noise, but she just tightens her grip and barrels on.

"You'll still remember it happened."

The last clamp finally gets pulled free, but it snips right through a wire on it's way out, and the android bites back a yelp as he stumbles forward. Nekomata is quick to wrap her arms around his shoulders and hold tight- half to keep him upright and half to keep him close.

"So please," she begs, burying her face into his jacket collar, "Please don't pretend that it didn't."

She can feel him jolt in her impromptu hug, and for a terrifying moment she's scared he might pull away and brush it all off again, the thiren couldn't really stop him if he truly wanted to- but Billy just brings his arm up to hug Nekomata back.

His grip is so unbelievably soft- feeble.

"...okay." he says, not a promise but an acknowledgement, "okay."

[flowercrowngods]

hi!

just read your fic of valery and shenkov (posted on thenatashapulleyuniverse) - the writing! the characterization! you capture the essence of them both in the most luscious way, a truest delight to read

thank you so much for writing it, lots of love <33333

aaah oh my god thank you!! 🥹🥰 this ask is so sweet, what a wonderful thing to wake up to 🥹 i’m so happy you liked it!!

and technically what i sent to them was only the beginning of what in my head is a slightly bigger thing (right up in my kostya feels), but i have a lot of things on my plate and thus need to be patient with myself and write only in increments unfortunately 😔

but anyway, since you’re here now— 👀🤍

[preceding snippet the ask is about]

There is no response to his words, and Valery wonders not for the first time if this house swallows noise just like the lab will swallow time. Maybe the impossibility of their situation has created the tiniest of black holes right here, swallowing the gentlest wishes of a good morning or a good night, and forcing them to repeat the words and fight to make them true.

Valery sets his coffee mug — half empty already because there are no boundaries between the two of them — beside Kostya’s, frowning when he still doesn’t move, doesn’t look up or reach over to acknowledge Valery’s presence. On other Sunday mornings, Kostya would lean back in his chair, the back of his head bumping into Valery’s chest with a happy little sigh, and he’d get a kiss to his forehead for his troubles. Then Valery would ask him what the newspaper said, what his least favourite word of the day is, and why the Brits are madmen for inventing it.

But Kostya is immovable, and Valery wonders if the tiny black hole that swallowed his voice has come and swallowed Kostya’s mind, too.

“Kostya,” he speaks instead, daring the world confined to their living room to challenge their impossibility and steal his voice once more. His hands come up — slowly and gently — to rest on Konstantin’s shoulders, which seem tense even buried beneath his navy blue sweater.

Time seems suspended between gentle touch and careful consideration, but then Valery feels tense muscles becoming rock solid for just a fraction of a second before Konstantin flinches and all but wrenches himself out of Valery’s touch with a choked breath.

Something inside him breaks at the sound of it, at the vision of Konstantin curled forward, as far out of Valery’s reach as he can be with the table in front of him. Valery takes a step back, feeling the black hole grow in size and viciousness, and stumbling as its mass bends gravity around it, sucking him in and away from Konstantin.

He grips the kitchen counter to stabilise himself and keep his mind from running away, running in circles trying to solve a problem he doesn’t yet know the origins of. All he does know is that touching Konstantin seems like a bad idea right now — no matter how his hands twitch, his mind conjuring up images of the two of them curled together, Valery draped over his back as Konstantin attempts to understand the Brits’ obsession with one thing or another, murmuring Russian insults between them like they’re a secret love language.

“I’m sorry,” comes Konstantin’s voice, too carefully crafted into something presentable that Valery can easily make out its shakiness. It hangs in the air, brittle, just waiting to break apart and reveal what it truly means.

So Valery waits. He watches as Konstantin clenches and unclenches his hand, reaching for Valery’s coffee mug to wrap his hands around it. It’s a silent message, one he might not be all that aware of but Valery is good at waiting, he’s good at observing and finding patterns. Kostya will find something of Valery’s when he could have easily used his own, and attempt to ground himself with it. Even when they’re fighting.

It leaves him grateful beneath his confusion, that he left it there.

“I’m sorry,” Konstantin says again, but still he doesn’t move. Frozen again — or still.

“It’s alright,” Valery says, his own shaky voice a thousand times more stable than Konstantin’s. “I promise, it’s alright. We’re safe.”

Konstantin huffs, and the black hole is not kind enough to swallow it this time, leaving Valery to frown, the weight of worry becoming nearly unbearable now. Does he not believe it? Does he not know?

“Talk to me, Kostya,” he pleas, his voice a whisper still, his hands clenching around the counter to keep himself from reaching out to the man he loves and challenging their impossibilities one time too many.

[babacontainsmultitudes]

As some of you already know, I am disheartened- though certainly not surprised- by the recent backlash against one Sparrow Oak Garcia for his recent transgression of *checks notes* having a mixed-to-negative opinion on zoos.

Part of me honestly feels a bit silly responding to any of this, but what are any of us here to do if not have opinions on fictional podcast characters. Anyways, I will get to the more important stuff, as obviously (if you've seen any of the criticisms I'm talking about) this ties back to Hero at the end of the day, but seeing as the first wave of hate I saw after the episode was largely to the effect of: "what the fuck does Sparrow have against zoos?", I would like to start by addressing that point briefly (and only briefly, as it's really not the sort of topic I care to discuss online), by saying that zoos and animal captivity more generally have a long history of being contested and criticized by animal rights activists, and that instances of animal abuse and neglect within zoos and other animal-based theme parks are anything but obscure. Furthermore, it feels worth noting that as of present less than 10% of zoos in the US are AZA-accredited. I say absolutely none of this with the intention of making any definitive statements on the nature of zoos, nor to judge people who do enjoy zoos, nor even to provide my own feelings on the matter. Rather, I offer this information only to explain that someone like Sparrow taking issue with something like zoos really isn't strange at all? And whether you agree with such a stance or not, it undoubtedly comes from a place of empathy. Moreover, I don't think we can honestly divorce Sparrow's take and compulsion to voice it from the metacontext that Sparrow is a character being played by Anthony Burch, you know, a vegan, who probably has his own views on the matter that may or may not differ from yours and mine.

Okay, on to more important matters. At the forefront of things I suppose is the assertion that Sparrow's behavior regarding Normal and the zoo and all that is hypocritical and perhaps even nonsensical in light of what Hero was going through at the time with her training. "He wouldn't take Normal to the zoo but he forced Hero to kill a deer with her bare hands?" Certainly the sort of statement that will elicit a strong emotive reaction from the fandom, but one that ultimately relies on a pretty major assumption, namely, that Sparrow acted as the primary organizer and perpetrator of Hero's training, one who supposedly felt no internal conflict towards the situation whatsoever, rather than instead serving as an enabler of it, who ultimately intervened but only after far too much damage was already done. Neither is a great thing to be, but there is absolutely a difference between both of these roles, and I think that Lark and Sparrow's respective behaviors over the course of the season point almost unanimously towards Sparrow being the latter and Lark the former.

(The above being a non-exhaustive list, of course)

The funny part about the whole zoo thing is that it only further corroborates the notion that Sparrow is someone who is sensitive to the suffering of others, and by extension only serves as more evidence that he most likely was not the one actively making Hero undergo the worst of what she had to do. Does this make him guiltless in the matter? Absolutely not, but it does point to Sparrow having issues that are fundamentally different from Lark's, and means that the instance with the zoo is not only consistent with Sparrow's characterization, but frankly not actually all that hypocritical if you look at it for more than a second. That is, there is a very important but simple difference between the situation with Normal and the zoo and that of Hero and the deer that accounts for the variances in Sparrow's behavior between both cases: Lark. Sparrow isn't okay with either situation, based on all the evidence we have so far of who he is as a person there is absolutely no reason to think that Hero's training is not something that deeply upset him- I mean for fuck's sake everything about how Sparrow raised Normal down to his name stems from not wanting his kids to have to live that kind of life. So why doesn't he put a stop to things sooner? Why does he let any of Hero's training happen at all? Again, very simply, because Sparrow cannot say no to his brother. I mean, he does eventually, given Hero's current status, and that change is an important and still ongoing facet of Sparrow's growth and his arc, but at the start of things it is something he struggles with even more than he does now, to his own suffering and detriment and of course even more so to Hero's. But did Sparrow himself "force Hero to kill a deer with her bare hands"? Almost certainly not, and I have to admit that I find it quite frustrating how quickly Lark vanishes from the collective conscious of the fandom when the time comes to assign accountability for matters concerning Hero. But then, who is Sparrow if not someone who takes the fall for his brother, apparently even in the fandom-space.

[Not that there isn't any nuance to Lark's utilitarianism, either. In general I feel as though discussion of the twins' biggest mistakes too often omits the acknowledgement of the fact that all of it has been to stop an eldritch horror responsible for the death and torture of millions of people, but anyways. Not what this post is about.]

I think that's mostly it lol. Got some thoughts on the family's policy on pets (and how it relates to the Hero thing but also to Beanie actually), as well as some remarks on Rebecca and how we really shouldn't be leaving her out of this discussion (I say, leaving her out of this discussion) but eeehhhhhhh y'all I'm especially low energy as of late eheh and mostly just wanted to speak my peace on a couple major things so let's cut it here for now I think :b

[pepperpottes]

i think i've figured out that my problem with writing fic is actually... reading other fic

i mean, my problem is a multitude of things, particularly perfectionism and a serious lack of self-esteem and confidence in my abilities to do a good job with literally anything, but lemme tell you, reading a bunch of absolute bangers on ao3 lately has NOT helped me in that department lol

like. i've read a few lately that are just SO GOOD. the kind of good that you can't stop thinking about it for days. and that's wonderful! i love when something is so well done that i can't get it out of my head. however, i really need it to get out of my head when i sit down to write my own shit, because then this starts:

"that author characterized [insert character] here so well; I can't do that! do i even understand this character at all?"

"their prose was so beautiful and poetic and had such a strong voice; mine doesn't! it's boring and lifeless and basic and there's nothing special about it to even call it a style!"

"their dialogue was so snappy and smart and realistic; mine isn't!" (re: do I even understand this character?)

"that story was so incredibly creative and well-thought out; my ideas are just lame and i don't have the mental capacity to come up with something that good!"

and most of all:

"that piece of work made me actually feel things; there's no way i could ever manage that!"

and then i end up staring at a blank page, internally screaming at myself: COMPARISON IS THE THIEF OF JOY

and i let it steal my joy, every time.

i do this with everything, by the way. not just writing. i have this terrible vice where i always think to myself, why is this worth doing if there's so many other people out there who are better at it than me? why would someone want to look at my pictures when they could look at something prettier? why would someone want to spend time reading my writing, when much better, more creative, more well-written stories exist? why would this company want to hire me, when they can hire someone smarter and more experienced?

i know a lot of this too is that i am so wildly out of practice with anything and everything creative, and that writing is like a muscle, and if you don't use it enough it grows weak again. i know that the more i do it, the better it will be. but just. ugh. i just get mad at myself sometimes for being this way. i'm mad at myself for letting my experiences in college make me hate writing SO MUCH that i didn't do it for eight years. nearly a decade of honing my skills, nearly a decade of ideas and stories, just lost.

(which is kinda silly, because i'm not even a... serious writer? i'm writing fanfiction. like who the fuck cares)

(but perhaps i could be a serious writer someday, like i always wanted.)

(circle back to, "but why would they hire me when they could hire someone better and more talented?")

idk. i'm just tired. i'm tired of being in my own head and not allowing myself the grace to say hey, it's okay if your writing isn't Pulitzer Prize worthy. it's okay if it's not as good as someone else's. it's okay if no one reads it or no one likes it, cause its yours and you should like it, and that's all that really matters in the end.

i'm also just physically and mentally tired from life and work and society and i imagine that's a much bigger factor in all of this than i'm giving it credit for. i punch out after 8+ hours of staring at medical records on a giant, blinding screen and i'm like, what are words? what are thoughts? i don't have any

(side note, i really feel like that job in particular has sucked the life out of me entirely. i used to be creative. i used to do things i liked, even if they weren't particularly good. i used to be... well, smart. i feel like i've regressed. or maybe i was never actually that smart or creative to begin with. BUT that's another rant for another time) (can you tell i'm a former "gifted student")

anyway, this turned into a really long and unnecessary rant about my deepest insecurities, but moral of the story: maybe i should stop reading fic for a while if i actually want to get something done without feeling terrible about myself in the process.

excuse me while i go, well... not write, probably.

[druidbottles]

The Protection of Innocence

Legend doesn't like opening up to people. He wants to be seen as strong. After waking up from a nightmare, a conversation with Wind manages to get him to loosen up just a little. It's not much, but it's a start.

This is just a little something I thought up. Legend has me in a chokehold constantly.

I wanted to write him being soft. And Wind has such little brother energy, I think he probably has that effect on most people.

I'm still new to Linked Universe and Legend of Zelda in general, so I apologize if characterization isn't great!

You can also read this over on AO3!

Legend was a seasoned adventurer, and at this point in his life, there wasn't much that he wasn't able to handle, no matter how much life tried to throw at him. He always managed to make it through even the most difficult of situations. He was strong, and there was nothing he hated more than having other people perceive him as weak.

Which was why it was so frustrating when he bolted upright in the middle of the night, a gasp leaving him as he was shaken out of his nightmare, only to turn his head to the side and see that Wind was awake, and staring right at him with curious, concerned eyes.

He considered just ignoring him, rolling over and going back to sleep without saying a word, but before he had the chance to do anything, a quiet voice pierced through the silence of the small camp they had created. “Are you alright, Vet?” The voice sounded somewhat nervous and unsure, and although Legend really didn't want to discuss this any further, he couldn't ignore that the kid sounded genuinely concerned and meant well.

He sighed and slumped forward a bit, not letting any of the residual tension from his nightmare show on his face. “Just had a bad dream. You gonna be up for much longer?”

Wind looked up at the moon, seemingly thinking about something before shrugging his shoulders. “I've been on watch for a while, so I'll probably be switching out with the captain in a bit.” He went silent for a moment, his gaze lingering just over Legend's shoulder, as if he was too nervous to make direct eye contact. “Do you wanna talk about your dream?”

Legend reached up to run a hand through his hair, instinctively groaning at the thought of sharing his dream with another person, let alone a kid like Wind. “I think I'm good. You should get some sleep, though. I'll take over for you until the captain wakes up.”

When he moved to stand up, he couldn't help but notice an exaggerated pout pass across the sailor’s face. Wind crossed his arms over his chest, casting a wary glance at Legend. “You don't need to coddle me just because I'm a kid, you know. I can handle being on watch just as well as the rest of you.”

Legend chuckled a bit at that, shaking his head as he stood and brushed himself off, making his way towards the log where Wind sat before a crackling fire. “Trust me, it has nothing to do with whether or not I think you're capable. I'm just gonna have trouble falling back asleep now, so I might as well be useful to you.” He settled down next to him, his eyes gazing at the flickering flames. “Seriously, it's not a big deal and I'd be staying up anyways. It'll be worse tomorrow if both of us are low on sleep.”

Wind didn't seem entirely convinced, and a tense silence passed between the two of them for several moments before he finally let out a sigh. “But you're sure you don't want company or something? I know I'm the youngest, but I'm really not weak at all! I can be useful!”

Legend paused for a moment when he heard him say that. He couldn't help but feel sympathetic towards Wind, as he understood the feeling of not wanting to be seen as anything but strong, and that surely wasn't easy for Wind when he was the youngest in the group and everyone saw him as a kid.

It took him a moment to figure out what to say, but with some consideration, he was finally able to speak, his gaze still remaining on the fire in front of him. “I know that you're strong, and trust me when I say that you've been very useful in everything we've done so far. You're young, but you're still a hero just like the rest of us.” Legend spoke earnestly, more softness in his voice than he was used to there being. “But even heroes need sleep. And like I said, it's better that at least one of us is well rested tomorrow.”

He could feel Wind still looking at him, but the younger boy didn't say anything. After what felt like a long time, he spoke in a quiet voice once more. “But you're sure you'll be alright by yourself? I know you just had a nightmare and all…”

Legend paused again as he realized that Wind wasn't just doing this because he didn't want to be seen as a child. Part of the reason he insisted on staying awake was because he wanted to protect him, comfort him after a bad dream. And as much as Legend hated being perceived as weak, he couldn't deny that something about that made him feel warm.

“How about this?” Legend finally turned to look at him and offered a small smile. “I’ll stay up with you during your watch because I'm having trouble sleeping. And if at any point you start to feel tired and want to get some more rest, I'll keep watch until the captain gets up. But only if you decide to go to bed yourself.”

Wind considered this, nose scrunching up in thought, but ultimately nodded his head in agreement. “Okay, that sounds good.”

And so the two of them sat in silence for a long while, watching the flames as they danced in the night air. It was a peaceful feeling, and Legend felt the lingering stress from his nightmare slowly melt away as a cool breeze brushed against his skin and he listened to the soft snores of his companions. When he glanced over at Wind, he could see the boy rubbing his eyes and yawning, but he didn't comment on it. He had made his deal, and Wind would go to bed when he decided on it.

After another little bit, Legend felt a shift beside him, and he looked over to see Wind slowly hoisting himself up from the log. The kid glanced back at him, another yawn escaping him before he spoke in a groggy voice. “You sure you'll be okay if I go to sleep?”

Legend chuckled and nodded, and Wind stretched his arms above his head before grunting in response. “Okay, I think I'm going to try and sleep a bit, then.” He stumbled towards his bedroll, his footsteps uncoordinated and clumsy because of how drowsy he was. “Thank you for taking over for me, Vet.”

Legend nodded in response, watching Wind as he settled down and pulled his blanket up to his chin. “Goodnight.” The sailor spoke in a quiet voice that was laced with sleep, clearly already falling into a deep slumber..

Looking back to the crackling of the flames before him, Legend couldn't help but smile just a little. “Sweet dreams, sailor.”

And when Wind shifted in his bedroll, a contented sigh escaping his lips as he snuggled deeper into his blanket, Legend felt that warmth in his heart again. For the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe it was worth it to open up to someone, that maybe he could trust Wind and the others more than he gave them credit for.

And he considered that maybe next time he was awoken by a nightmare, it would be alright to tell someone about it, instead of bottling it up like usual. That thought made him smile despite himself, glancing over at his sleeping companions, and chuckling to himself. He wondered what they were dreaming about. They all had their own traumas, and he was sure many of them had memories that haunted them, but as he sat in front of the warm fire, listening to the sounds of soft snores and tired bodies shifting in their sleep, he truly did hope they were having sweet dreams.

[scp230kinnie]

SCP doctor dateable types? I saw your stardew valley one and thought it was really good

OMG OMG OMG YES

Quick little note guys I am working on more fanfics 🤭 okay enjoy

SCP doctors and their “types”

Characters: Jack Bright, Alto Clef, Benjamin Kondraki, Simon Glass, Dr Gears

Genre: idk just Headcanons

Includes: Headcanons of what I think their “types” would be, and a headcanon of what I think their favourite song would be as an extra treat 🤭

Warnings: IDK this is just my characterization of the characters, if they don’t fit into your own characterizations then write ur own fics. This is going to be rlly similar to the stardew one because I’m unoriginal. Always remember that these guys would love you no matter what you look like or how you are !! This is just what I think.

Moving on

Dr. Jack Bright

He’s definitely looking for someone with similar energy as him

Maybe even willing to play some pranks with him

But I also feel like he wouldn’t mind someone with opposite energy

Shy, quiet type, yk?

I think he would love to date someone who’s a little bit more “alternative”

Or generally people with good style

Lord knows he doesn’t have it but he would love if you did

Someone with a nice voice for sure

He also just wants someone who will be there for him, and comfort him when he needs it

Very touch deprived so maybe someone with a love language that’s physical touch

Anyways I think his favourite song would be Porn star dancing - My Darkest Days

Dr. Alto Clef

He wants Someone LOUD

Someone who will blast music if a room gets too quiet, or someone who will sit and talk for hours about anything

Also someone who’s bold, or up for any challenge, and not afraid to speak their mind

Loves people who express themselves

I think he’s decently tall so he likes people shorter than him

Also people with nice hair

He’s he’s a thigh guy for sure

He likes people who play instruments of course

I feel like style wise, he likes anyone. Emo, preppy, whatever, he loves and supports it

As for his favourite song, DONTTRUSTME - 3OH!3 takes the cake

Dr. Benjamin Kondraki

He likes quiet people

He also likes people who know how to be calm even in the worst, most stressful situations.

People who know how to be safe around SCPs so he can be sure they won’t get hurt

He likes people who smell good tbh

He also likes tall people

Even if they’re shorter than him, if they’re moderately tall he loves it

Loves people with long hair

He would like to play with it and (try to) style it

He like people with piercings. Nothing over the top, but he thinks enough piercings look amazing on people

His favourite song is heart shaped box - nirvana

Dr. Simon Glass

He likes people who are quiet, but confident.

And people who know how to hold up a conversation

People with nice pretty hands too

And painted nails

Pls pls paint his nails

He likes people who are smart and rational

Also people with dyed hair lol

He likes tall people

Definitely likes rational people

And people who are skilled at things

Anyways the award of his favourite song goes to Such Small Hands - La Dispute

Dr. Gears

Likes people that are quiet and reserved

And calm

Definitely likes people who like to read

He also likes people who know how to cook/bake

And people who are smart ofc

Wants someone that has good grammar

I feel like he likes generally anyone and doesn’t care how they look

He doesn’t care about style either

He doesn’t have a favourite song.

Hope you guys enjoyed lol I tried my best

Sorry for never posting I’m working on it

Leave more requests (especially about my hyperfixations pls)

Including Gotham, Wednesday, SCP, AIB, girl from nowhere, all of us are dead, stardew valley, and anything on the list pinned to my profile

[sn33z3s]

in defense of “if you weren’t a fucking asshole”

(what better time to write “meta” than hours before a season premiere. after all, style is dead. or was it that it’s just boring? no, wait, it’s toxic??)

this doesn’t have a thesis, it’s just some leftover thoughts from last year - mostly pertaining The Church Scene, because of course - and featuring some hot stan marsh characterization takes i guess

let’s start with the gay glancing at your ex-childhood best friend

so, this framing is loaded because it's the narrative of their whole thing: kyle chasing stan. stan usually comes to kyle's rescue in absurd (but solvable) situations, whereas kyle often has to fight stan to provide emotional respite. they're thinking of each other here; it's distinct how stan looks back, rather than this shot cutting at kyle. stan's explosive reaction is still pretty presumptuous, but kyle was, even if unintentionally, asking for stan's attention - which is typical

in a sense, this scene is their wordless language; the kind you share with said ex-best friend but it’s gotten worn from overuse, and as a result, you’re both communicatively stunted, so now that you’ve reached out again after 40 years, the first step to any comfort or solace is [the scene above] and a homoerotic spectacle:

well, i don’t need to tell you what that public spectacle is; you already know

stan leads his paranoid outburst in the church by accusing kyle of knowing something which would be impossible for kyle to know; in You’re Getting Old/Assburgers kyle also reaches out to stan, who turns him down, yet still asks that kyle basically read his mind and comfort him

kyle is not a stranger to demanding unrealistic things from stan as well, but kyle calling stan “asshole” packs that punch since contemporarily the fandom usually assumes stan as more emotionally forward or in-touch with himself. however, in the church, kyle is pointing out that stan is clearly repressing his feelings, desires, traumas, etc. and kyle has used a similar approach before:

in my last meta, i wrote about how stan is pretty firm in not instantly accepting kyle's olive branches. of course, the thing is, kyle's olive branches are bent sometimes, let alone how he approaches asking for stan's forgiveness before the broship splits. kyle doesn't apologize: he just expects stan to move on

(also, i love the "divorced couple" coding before we even reach Post-COVID.) anyway, the show clearly acknowledges stan as "agreeing with kyle no matter what," and the first time stan and kyle fight in canon, it’s a big deal

i always return to how i don't see kyle or stan as at fault in most of, if not all, of their fights. this especially applies to YGO & Assburgers since it's one of their most significant “break-up” arcs. still... kyle's "if you weren't a fucking asshole" in the church scene is so satisfying. (and 100% excellent voice acting on matt stone's part; the punchy delivery at the end of that line is what makes me revisit it often.) when i put my tin foil hat on, it does sound like decades of resentment built up. if this post had to have a thesis, it’d be, “here’s why kyle had every right to call stan an asshole in that moment,” but the Stan Can Be an Asshole, Too meta is for another day. after all, my last meta also revolved around the trouble i have with framing stan as an exclusively passive character (rather than predominantly passive) 

by “decades of resentment,” i mean simmering for kyle since, you guessed it, episodes such as You're Getting Old and Assburgers. i talk about YGO & Assburgers a lot, i'm sorry. but i was thinking about the church scene as i browsed the south park wiki on the official site: "Kyle can only deal with so much of Stan's negativity." (obviously, matt and trey themselves do not write or even moderate the Comedy Central studios wiki, so take all of it with a grain of salt.) i like that wording, though, and this other part of the blurb too: "Stan's ego can get in the way of their friendship [referencing Guitar Queer-o]" 

kyle not being able to handle stan’s negativity these days is more often harshly critiqued than anything about stan’s ego. that detail does, in many forms, relate to the stan jock characterization discourse, but that’ll also have to wait for another meta. i can say a couple of things about it to tie up this post, though 

yes, kyle fails to comfort stan in the YGO arc. at the same time, i don't think his positivity is always maligned. after all, the YGO arc isn't stan vs kyle, it's stan and kyle vs. growing up; this is their contemporary theme. and yes, for a kid, kyle can have that emotional maturity

Tegridy Farms and Post-COVID have cemented stan as south park’s protagonist – though, in my opinion, he always has been it, especially since Bigger, Longer, & Uncut – and protagonists are like, the character archetype that receives the most self-projection. yet this emotional angle is comparatively still a fairly new framing of stan’s character. now that this show is narrated in such a way that we see even more of the world of south park through stan’s eyes, fans watching may feel extra inclined to think of him as only ever depressed. but being sad is not all stan does and never has been

not only is this frequency fairly new to his character, i would go so far as to say that there’s a difference between the contemporary stan angst arcs and older episodes like Raisins, YGO, and Assburgers. being sad is not “natural” to stan (whatever that means), it is thrust upon him. most recently, this is randy’s fault. yes, we are meant to - and i hope that most do - sympathize or empathize with stan, but my point here is that he’s a little bit more belligerent and bullish than the fandom currently gives him credit for

[mentally-a-slut]

Luck Ain't Got Nothin' To Do With It Teaser

ALRIGHT Y'ALL HERE'S A LITTLE TEASER FROM MY POLY CHAURTHUR FIC!!

i just put down a random title, i'm not sure it'll stay the same but it'll do for now! this is from later in the fic, about 20k words in i think, but i thought it was a cute interaction to show!

notes: Josie is the main character and my OC in this fic, her love interests are both Arthur and Charles and she is Sean's older sister. she's irish ofc, and she is pretty stereotyped simply because Sean is too and they're siblings. also part of her character is that she leans into the whole "luck of the irish" thing, so it's not meant to be ignorant in the way she is described. no offense is intended by the characterization of Josie or Sean for that matter, and if anyone has a valid issue with it, lmk.

anyway, enjoy, and let me know if you want me to start posting the full fic!

Josie was up before anyone else the following morning, which would have been impressive except for the fact that pretty much everyone was hungover.

She had refused to drink last night, knowing that she was set to depart the next day. She had traveled with a hangover before and had no intention of doing it again anytime soon. It was a whole hour before someone else stirred. Kieran stumbled groggily through the brush, emerging from his haven on the outskirts.

Josie greeted him with a small smile, tipping her hat as she sipped her coffee. He spoke in a whisper as he approached her, eyes narrowing under the morning light. “Morning, Miss Josie.”

Josie chuckled softly at his formality, taking off her hat and placing it firmly on his head to shield the sun. His cheeks flushed red at her actions, and she sent him a friendly smirk. “Just Josie, Kieran. And you can borrow my hat until your hangover dies down. I know how bad the sun feels the morning after a fun night.”

He fiddled with the hat on his head, stuttering through a reply. “Thank you, Josie. I appreciate it.”

She nodded, and they fell into a mutual silence as they stood idle by the fire.

Hosea was not long after Kieran, looking far more chipper than one should after the celebration of the previous night. He didn’t approach the pair, opting to send a silent wave in their direction and make his way to the lake. Josie caught the tail end of a fishing rod in his wake, and she smiled when she realized he was likely taking advantage of the quiet morning to do some fishing.

Within the next couple hours, the others emerged with dramatic groans and complaints, followed by a poorly received yell from Miss Grimshaw telling everyone to smarten up. Dutch laughed good-naturedly and waved the matriarch off, telling everyone to take the day easy to recover. Susan didn’t look very happy about the sentiment but followed his orders anyway.

Kieran trotted off to tend to the horses as the camp livened up, his discomfort around the others clear. Seraphina took the boy’s spot next to her, plopping her butt down on her boot. Josie couldn’t stay mad at the husky, failing to scold her for trapping her. Josie enjoyed the quiet time with her pup until Jack made his appearance, frantically whipping his head around looking for something. The something turned out to be the very dog next to her, and he let out an excited squeal as Seraphina pranced over to him, freeing Josie’s boot from the confines of her butt.

She vaguely heard John’s voice grumbling towards his son to quiet down, the little boy’s exclamation likely causing discomfort for most everyone in camp. Josie snorted, finally moving from her idle position by the fire for the first time in hours.

Almost everyone was accounted for, grumbling messes stumbling out of their tents by noon, still clad in nightclothes with no intention to change.

After a few scans of camp, Josie furrowed her eyebrows and looked around for Charles. Arthur was no where to be seen, which was unlike the man. He was usually one of the first awake. Charles was already looking her way when she met his gaze, and Josie tried not to blush. She made her way over to him, holding his stare as she spoke. “Where’s Arthur?”

Charles huffed out a laugh, wincing slightly as the noise sent a slight twinge through his head. It seemed he wasn’t immune to the effects of alcohol after all. “No one told you? Arthur’s an awful drunk. He’s probably holed up in his tent, trying to sleep it off. We’ll be lucky if we see him all day.”

Josie frowned at this, which caught the man’s attention. “Why? Everything okay?”

She flashed a smile at him, heart fluttering at the concern he displayed for her. “Yeah, I was just hoping to say goodbye to him before I left.”

His eyes flickered with an emotion close to panic, but he masked it quickly with his usual indifference. “You’re leaving?”

Josie studied his expression for any sign of discontent at her departure, sighing lightly when she found none. “Yeah, was gonna take my leave today. I did what I came for, don’t wanna overstay my welcome.”

He hummed, processing her words. He spoke again, shifting the conversation in a strangely sudden way. “Hey, how about we get Arthur up? That way you can say goodbye.”

Josie knitted her brows. “I don’t want to upset him or anything…”

Charles waved her off, moving to go towards Arthur’s tent without giving her a chance to protest. “He’ll be fine, c’mon.”

She stammered in confusion for a moment before speed walking to catch up with him, pausing at the entrance to the tent. Charles took the lead, knocking on the wooden supports of the canvas. The answering groan was pained, followed by a string of curses that would make Susan smack him upside the head. Charles stifled a grin before going in, motioning Josie to follow.

She hesitated a moment before entering, trying not to blush at the implications of entering a tent with Charles.

“Wake up, Arthur, Josie wants to say goodbye.”

Charles did Arthur the favor of keeping his voice down, but the disheveled man still cursed him out. “Get the hell out of my- what do you mean say goodbye?”

Arthur suddenly sat up, groaning and cradling his head when the movement sent a jolt of pain through his brain. He shook his head and continued to get up, bleary eyes struggling to focus on the awkward redhead before him. “Well, I’m taking my leave later today. I did what I came for and all, so no reason for me to stay.”

Arthur sent as much of a glare towards Charles as he could manage, grunting when he tried to stand up and stumbled. Charles steadied him with a smug smile on his face as Arthur continued cursing him out while leaning on him for support. Arthur stammered through his words, gaze flickering nervously as he tried to gather his thoughts. “Uh, your arm! You, you can’t just leave with an injury like that, you gotta stay until it’s all healed up.”

Josie stifled a chuckle at the tough cowboy’s slurred words, cocking her head at him. “I’m fine. It’s all patched up now, I don’t need to be babysat.”

Arthur attempted another sentence, looking pointedly at Charles when he stumbled on his words too much to get them out. Charles shifted and abruptly jumped in, a slight nervousness in his tone that she hadn’t heard before. “Uh, Arthur’s right! Just, uh, just to be safe, you should stay a little while longer, you know, infection and… stuff…”

Arthur nodded frantically in agreement before immediately wincing at the discomfort the quick movement caused. Josie glanced between the two men, smiling slightly at the sight of Arthur leaning on Charles. She knew they were being odd, and she had the feeling they were keeping something from her. Instead of stressing herself out over it, she decided to agree with them, just to ease their worries.

“Right. I suppose a couple more days won’t hurt. Uh, if that’s all then, I’ll just be… going now…”

Josie slowly backed out of the tent, suspicious gaze staying locked on the pair until she was out of sight.

The second the tent flaps fell shut, Arthur slumped down onto his cot. Charles kept an arm around his waist as he did so, steadying him on the way down and only letting go when he was sure he wouldn’t fall off. His eyes fell tightly shut, almost like he was trying to block out the throbbing pain the hangover was torturously causing. Charles sighed and looked down at him, a hand going up to rub his forehead. “Smooth, Arthur.”

Arthur made a sound of protest, as much of one as he could, anyway, lightly nudging his foot against Charles’s leg. “You weren’t any better.”