#neither of them talk about it though of course

[greenlighted]

it started with the bed.

by the time ron had woken up that morning he'd noticed harry's bed was already made and the other boy was nowhere in sight. harry's space in general looked tidied up, actually. the clutter he was used to seeing nowhere in sight. it wasn't unusual for harry to wake up earlier than him, but typically he left a bit of a trail behind him when he went off to wherever it was he went. he wasn't ever messy the way ron was, but his things were never tidy in a way that makes sense to anybody but him. a sock or two thrown about, school things dumped on top of his trunk, his gryffindor robes permanently living at the end of his bed when not in use.

he wouldn't have thought twice about it, really, if it weren't for the fact that the bed was made.

he's seen harry tidy up properly before, when whatever system he has going for him spirals out of control and he needs to reset. but making his bed has never been something he tries to keep up on. he can honestly say he's not sure if he's ever seen harry's bed made before once he's slept in it the first time after somebody else had made it for him.

he brushes it off to harry just being in one of his moods again, and starts getting ready to go down to the great hall for breakfast. he noticed harry's things in their dorm bathroom had been straightened up too and tucks the knowledge away for later.

once he reaches the great hall he immediately spots hermione's head of hair and beelines towards her, noting the lack of harry anywhere. also not an unusual sight, especially on a saturday.

harry never does show for breakfast, nor does ron see him later at lunch.

he doesn't actually see harry until midway though dinner that day, and once he does catch sight of him he can't help but stare a little bit. he doesn't look much different than normal, but his hair looks a little more put together than ron can ever remember seeing before, and he's got four books cradled in his arms, and his school bag slung over his shoulder. his shoes are tied properly and he doesn't look like he just rolled out of bed after a long night of not sleeping.

he glanced over at hermione sitting beside him and notices her looking at harry closely and feels relieved to know she thinks something is weird too.

"hello," harry says when he reaches them, ignoring the raised eyebrows hermione and ron himself were giving him.

"hi, harry," hermione greets him back easily, her head tilting slightly. "where have you been all day? this is the first time ive even seen you."

"i was in the library catching up on my essays."

neither one of them can help the surprise that flashes across the faces and ron sees harry look at them like he's confused. he was as bad at writing his essays as ron was, why was he so confused if they were surprised that he not only did his homework completely unprompted, but that he had spent all day doing all of his homework.

"the library?" ron asks, wanting to laugh. "didn't realize you knew where that was, mate."

"of course i know where the library is, it's not like i've never been there before."

"obviously, you've been there; it's not really your happy place though, is it?"

harry just looked confused again before shaking his head and starting to fill his plate. he grabbed a small spoonful of peas, which ron thought was odd since harry didn't even like peas.

"i just wanted to get it all done, why does it matter so much?" harry mumbles irritably.

"harry," hermione interrupts, "why do you have a book for ancient runes? you don't even take the class."

"one of the books i was reading for a charms essay mentioned some stuff about runes and it sounded interesting," he shrugs at her. "i didnt really understand anything it was talking about so i grabbed a beginner book."

while hermione was definitely the bookworm out of the three of them, harry did his fair share of reading too. ron's seen him with his face in a book more than once, but he'd never really seen him go out of his way to read. especially not about a completely new subject to him that he'd never shown an hint of interest in before.

he saw a similar confusion work its way through hermione and they both looked at each other.

"are you okay, mate?" ron asks hesitantly, looking at harry.

harry looks up at him then and his eyes widen just a little bit, looking a bit lost all of the sudden.

"im fine," he says, eyes quickly scanning the hall before looking down at his plate and scrunching his nose up at the peas there. "i guess i just lost track of time."

"you made your bed this morning, mate."

"harry made his bed this morning?"

harry looked offended for a moment before relaxing again.

"what's so wrong with me making my bed? isn't that supposed to be a good thing?"

"you never make your bed," ron pointed his fork at harry and sees hermione nodding out of the corner of his eye.

"you did your homework without me telling you to," hermione added, and this time it was ron nodding along. "you checked out a book from the library on a subject you don't take for extra curricular reading."

harry looked confused again, but his eyes darted down to the school supplies and books beside him and he looked ready to get defensive again so ron decided to ease the tension a bit.

harry was already in some sort of mood, so it wouldn't do any of them any good to work him up any more than he already is. he'd tell them eventually if something serious was going on.

"it's almost like you're possessed or something, mate," ron joked, glancing over at hermione and missing the way harry had paled at the words.

Possession fic but Harry has crippling ADHD (or whatever) and Voldemort's possession either through control or just reminding him of what he's supposed to be doing is making Harry so competent that people start to get suspicious.

[keepingitformyself]

especially for tender ones like us

A/N: hehehehehehehehehehehehe synopsis: humor, anxiety, and the salvation of love.

pairings: natasha romanoff x reader

genre: fluff.

warnings: no?

MASTERLIST

please do not repost my work anywhere for any reason at all. if you do see this happen to any of my stories, please let me know. thank you x.

natasha tries not to stumble over her words when she suggests staying in, instead of going out. she does not mean to, but she does. 

how could she not? could you really blame her for wanting a quiet night? something that isn’t so public. she wanted to see you, of course, but she wanted to see you in a space you could be comfortable in, without any of the outside world and free from any distractions.  

you listen intently through the other line, you fight the giggle at catching her little stutter. she can’t see, but you smile widely at the whole thing.

“yeah, we can stay in. i can cook us dinner,” you nod. natasha’s shoulders drop in a quiet sense of relief at your words. her lips curl into a smile. “i’d like that. i can’t wait.”

although this would only be the fourth time you had met up together, to natasha, it felt like the first every single time. 

you continue talking for a little while more. natasha shares details about her day, work, and what she ate during lunch. she tells you how on her way to grab her usual coffee order, an americano, she decided she’d switch her order to a matcha latte after having had you recommend it to her. she tells you, 

“it was good, but not nearly enough caffeine for me to keep up with,” she said, her tone light but teasing. and while it hadn’t become her new favorite drink, just knowing she’d tried it for you was more than enough. her words sent your thoughts spiraling, a warmth blooming in your chest. you were certain that if she were standing next to you, you wouldn’t hesitate to kiss her right then and there.

but you can’t do that so instead, you just fall back on your bed like a high schooler talking to her crush. 

when you finally do meet up the following evening, natasha is buzzing with nerves she doesn't understand. she has taken down whole regimes and has fought aliens from space, yet she seems to draw the line when it comes to facing you. 

she knocks on your door, her other arm clutching a brown bag containing wine and flowers. a reasonable offering if you’re having dinner with someone you want to impress. 

when you answer the door, you're wearing a cream-colored knit sweater. 

“i thought i heard pacing out there.” you joke. 

natasha’s cheeks flush as she tries—and ultimately fails—to fight the smile tugging at her lips. “i wasn’t pacing,” she says, though the slight crack in her voice gives her away.

you step aside and invite her in, and neither of you acknowledges the quiet intimacy of the moment. it feels like more than just dinner, more than just a simple evening in your apartment.

you’re about to cook for her, and somehow, that feels monumental.

natasha’s nerves are a mess, though she can’t quite figure out why—or maybe she can. maybe it’s the way your presence makes her feel unsteady, as though the ground beneath her shifts whenever you’re near.

but natasha doesn’t want to be nervous.

she saw once—a penguin mistaking a sleeping walrus for a rock. the penguin had been caught completely off guard when the walrus stirred, nearly crushing it before it scurried away just in time.

natasha had found it funny at the time, the way surprises can sneak up on you. but now, thinking about it, it doesn’t feel so funny. it feels… unnerving.

surprises are bad for the heart, she thinks. she’s been taught her whole life to avoid them, to anticipate every possibility before it unfolds.

but knowing too much, being too prepared—that can hurt, too.

her thoughts are interrupted by your laughter, light and unburdened, as you guide her toward the kitchen. your smile is so easy, so genuine, and she can’t help but feel how good it is to exist in this space with you.

she offers to help you cook, but you shoo her away instead. you make her watch.

she sits there, with her hands on her lap, and just stares. and she can’t help the look of longing on her face. the kind of thing that suggests she wouldn’t mind this being a constant. 

you made pasta for the evening. nothing too spectacular, but natasha had treated it like you were a top chef and had spent hours crafting everything with your bare hands. 

and then once you’ve plated food for you both and you’ve gotten down to a few bites, you notice the small sigh natasha lets out. the flutter of her eyes as she takes in the meal. 

you smile at her reaction as you move some of the food with your fork. 

“do you like it?”

she looks at you, mid-chew, her mouth stuffed with the food, but she manages a smile. 

“yeah, uh, yes it’s good. it’s so good,” she says, hand over her mouth. 

you continue eating, talking about everything and anything. the night was filled with small moments that would bleed into much deeper ones. you laughed, she smiled, you smiled, she laughed. the kind of things one feels they become when around those who make you tender. 

and you don’t know how or when but you try not to notice how little by little natasha seems to retract a little. 

you decide maybe she needs a small moment for herself and start cleaning up the table. she offers to help, but you wave her off, insisting she relaxes. 

she tries to, but realistically, natasha doesn’t know how to relax. so she sits back and stares at you like she isn’t sure what to do with herself. she isn’t used to this at all. spaces like this–warm, cozy, comfortable.

the impending guilt comes. it’s all so layered. she feels so much at once. the nervousness, the anxiety, the fear of loss, the fear of not being present enough. 

natasha doesn’t know how to be here without sacrificing so much. 

after a while, natasha speaks up. 

“i should probably get going.” her voice too casual to sound like she meant it. she tries not to notice the look of disappointment on your face when you turn around to face her. 

“you don’t have to.” you find yourself saying, not wanting her to leave. 

she hums, something that says she’s already made up her mind. she gets up and gathers her things. 

you follow her to the door, or at least try to—but you pause at the end of the hall when you see her linger near the door, uncomfortably. unsure if she should leave. 

you call her out on it. “you can stay longer if you want.”

natasha wrestles with herself because she really wants to. she looks at the door as if it’d answer for her. 

you’re letting her know. 

natasha feels awkward, clammy hands. she doesn't know what she’s doing. and it’s hard to think of anything else when your eyes are screaming, don't actually leave, at her. 

you look at her carefully, trying to see if you can find any clear indication of what she may be feeling, but it isn’t hard to figure out the redhead in front of you. 

you’ve noted quite quickly how easy it comes for her walls to lower when you’re around. and if there’s anything you’ve learned from that, it’s that natasha romanoff isn’t the trained killer everyone thinks she is. 

sure we all have certain versions we show to certain people. but the natasha you know is anything but rough-edged. the natasha you’ve come to know is actually quite the opposite of what everyone else perceives. 

she’s tender, in her own silent way. too afraid to ever let too much slip away that she’s so painfully aware of everything around her. 

natasha is tenderness wrapped in quiet strength, a paradox of someone who feels deeply but guards herself fiercely. she sees the world clearly—the beauty and the harm—and carries that weight like a constant ache.

like she knows the world hurts more for those most aware of hurt. 

her tenderness isn’t soft; it’s sharp, vigilant, always bracing for the pain that comes with letting others in. you can see it in the flicker of her gaze, the way she hesitates as if expecting the world to hurt her.

and yet, she doesn’t harden. she holds onto that fragile, open part of herself, even when it would be easier not to. it’s beautiful and a little heartbreaking.

natasha looks up at you, then back down at her hands. just above a whisper, she says, 

“i don't know what i’m doing.” 

“that’s the most fun part.” you joke. she smiles, she doesn’t know how to say she wants more time. 

how could she say she feels greedy at this moment? she wants to protect being here with you. we have such little time, she thinks. 

bashfully, she steps closer to you, “i don't want to go.” she says. 

“then don’t.” and natasha almost complies. instead, she takes a step closer, her hand lifting towards your cheek. she’s so close now. 

she kisses you, soft, and shy, but you make her feel sure when your arm circles her neck, deepening the kiss altogether. when she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours, she lets out a shaky breath. 

“maybe i’ll forget my scarf,” she murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips. 

“please do,” you replied. please leave your scarf, please linger near the door uncomfortably instead of leaving. please always come back. “that way you’ll have to come back later for it.”  

and just like that, her quiet uncertainty washes away. 

she takes her scarf off and drops it near the door. you follow her actions, you smile, amusement in your eyes. 

later that night, when natasha gets home, she texts you. 

i forgot my scarf. 

you reply, you’ll have to come get it then. 

[londondungeon2]

IN BLOOM. jade leech

He had not expected to see you at all during the duration of his birthday party. This, he was fine with. You are recovering after all and should remain in bed. Though, Jade supposes his act is not subtle by the way his twin keeps eyeing like watching a dog off a leash, making sure he won't run off.

tags: mild hurt/comfort, birthday bloom event, drinking & talking, established relationship, pre-canon to Got You.

word count: 2060

He is not being subtle, is he?

Too many physical clues have given his twin insight that he is not doing mentally well. He can pass off the fidgeting with the wooden shaft of his broom to nerves over flying. His dual-colored eyes flickering over to the lounge’s clock might just be him wanting to be out of the spotlight. All those little quirks can be shrouded by a false truth, but Floyd won’t believe a single one.

Jade preserves despite this inner schism between his twin and himself. The dialogue that Shrimpy’s a big girl and she doesn’t need ya coddlin’ her, Seven, you’re latchin’ on like some parasite, get a grip. Which would be fiercely combated by the dialogue that I’m her boyfriend which should put an end to discussion but probably wouldn’t.

So, neither of them discuss it because why fight on our birthday?

He gets through the interview and the broom-flying without a hitch. Even when he teethers himself a bit closer to the safety of the ground, he manages to do it all efficiently and effectively. Though all the stomach-knotting worry, it is an impossible task to stop the smile that cracks off his pursed lips when his twin tries to snatch his Birthday Bloom hat.

For the majority of this evening’s party, Jade has been biting his tongue to hold back excuses to leave. If he took a bathroom break, it would give him ample time to – at the very least – poke his head in his dorm room. Then, he thinks about how much that is a dog owner excusing themselves early from the party to let the mutt out; then, he thinks about those stout, pearly gray parasites from home; then, he thinks himself out of his idea.

He is fiddling – that is one of his more apparently anxious habits, always grasping at the nearest thing to twist or rub between his fingertips – with the white roses sitting elegantly in his broom’s bouquet when he sees what he was not expecting to see. Birthday gifts and surprises truly don’t stop coming until midnight? Because at the entrance, there you stand.

Kalim’s proclivity towards partying has never benefited or inconvenienced Jade much before. It might have caused a few stand-alone memories to pop, but nothing other than that. Right now however, there is a slight relief coursing through him due to Kalim leaving the party early to attend another.

Your attention will not be spread so thin. Because after you are done scanning the glittering decorations, your tired eyes fall upon him first with the crushing weight of acknowledgment and scrutiny.

You smile. It is tiny and disappears right when it flickered alive. Expression quietly somber, the uncharacteristic of it is quite jarring. None of the guests are even noticing you enter beyond himself and Floyd – who for the first time all night, finally turns away and stops watching him like he is a dog off a leash, about to sprint at the next opportunity.

When you land, you sit pressed leg to leg against one another. Despite how thick the robes are, indigo cotton like a shield, he feels the weight of you leaning against him like a fallen building most. Pressure under the Coral Sea is suffocating; the crude mimic of the sensation done by you is comforting.

“I’m not crashing the party, am I,” you ask into the pattern of golden swirling keys and crows on your boyfriend’s cloak. “Thought you guys would be done by now.”

“So did I. Truthfully, there is not much left to be done.” Which is why it has been frustrating that Floyd was not letting him escape.

“Whaaa,” you whisper softly, “no, you gotta party till you drop. There’s no other way to celebrate a birthday.”

“I see,” Jade tuts. He looks down at the crown of your hair resting by the corner where his magestone sits on his birthday uniform. “You don’t particularly look ready to get up and dance with me. How unfortunate.”

Like a feline, you rub your cheek deep into the dreamlike scene embodied on his outfit. The entire wardrobe line does look like these birthday boys were plucked from dark night skies. It would not be surreal to imagine you collapsing into him and falling asleep, like a meteor fizzling out on earth.

Instead, you murmur, “I just woke up from a nap. Give me a second.” Your hand reaches out and grabs Jade’s milkshake glass that is full of Boozy Blue. He watches through what isn’t blocked by your hair as you take the miniature umbrella he left on the edge and begin to twirl it in your fingertips. “You won’t be able to keep up.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“No. Just a promise.” A cough splits apart the end of your sentence.

Deliberate, Jade points his focal attention towards the lounge. Only a few stragglers are left in the almost concluded birthday celebration. Even Azul has already retired so really this should close up soon. Gazing, Jade finds that Ortho Shroud is among the stragglers and he happens to be impolitely staring at the both of you.

A twitch passes over Jade’s upper lip. He surmised that he knows exactly what those traffic-yellow eyes are taking in, calculating the diameter and shape of the bruises left on your neck.

He goes to reach down, pet along the side of your face, and cover your neck from any peering audience when something hits his fingers. Your heartbeat … it’s pounding. Like a drum. So powerfully loud that it almost seems to disrupt the air around you. Is it not uncomfortable to sit upright like that when your heart is seizing up in premature cardiac arrest? He should rest you down further on the couch so you may relax until your heart stops trying to break out your ribcage.

Had you just woken up from a nightmare? Jade’s hand lands on your shoulder, sailing past the spot he was seeking to conceal. If he touches there, there is a rising probability that you might seize up.

He flexes his grip on your bicep and you lean deeper into his uniform, both of you trying to fuse into each other’s warm touch. Running his tongue over needle-pointed teeth, Jade asks after a quiet minute of cuddling, “May I ask that you fulfill a promise to me on my birthday?”

“Of course.” You stir to look up at him with witchcraft eyes. A jovial smile pulls your lips, ready to please, as you twist the little umbrella, guaranteeing, “Anything for the birthday boy.”

“Never. Never go into Ramshackle without me.”

Your lips fall flat. That thunderous heartbeat — that Jade can almost graze as it lies thin and delicate across every plain of your skin — skips a beat. “Jade —.”

“Please,” he tries to keep despair out of his voice but knows by how you flinch that it was inadequate. “Please, never go into Ramshackle again.” It feels selfish to ask a person with your disposition to be shackled or forbidden from a certain place, but it would ease his own pounding heart to never find you in such a state again.

After a moment of silence, you pull away from Jade and place down the umbrella. Your furrow brow makes him think you are going to leave, walk straight out of the party. Instead, you reach into your pajama pants pocket. “I promise, I won’t ever go into Ramshackle again. But, I had to go in there yesterday because I had to retrieve this.”

Between the gate of your index and middle finger, slightly obscured by your howlite ring, you hold up something slim and shiny. One could almost mistake it for a sturgeon scale and when Jade was younger than eighteen, he probably would have made that mistake. Now older, freshly turned twenty today, he knows that you are holding your lucky guitar pick in your hand — one of the three original possessions you have from your alien world.

“Why didn’t you —?”

“I didn’t think it would be right to ask you for your help. It’s my pick. It’s my problem. And I didn’t want —.”

“Nonsense.” Jade grasps the wrist holding your treasure and says firmly, “It would not have been a strife to go with you, I promise.”

You go huff with a closed lip smile. So it goes. Your head falls delicately and looping hair covers up the skin-deep necklace of plum and black that you wear. An insidious accessory.

The first thing you eat after waking up from your nap is a plum that has gone bad. Everyone has left the birthday longue, even Floyd who had ruffled your hair and told you that ya still owed him a birthday gift. You had smiled; now you are frowning while the feeling of wet, rotten curdles lying in your mouth upsets your taste buds.

You find a napkin and spit into it. The pattern of it matches the birthday outfits with their golden crows and golden keys and golden swirls. In the ribcage of your napkin sits a squishy heart of discolored yellow, half-chewed plum. The color reminds you of those science videos wheeled out of a rickety table, showing off pale yellow cholesterol in the veins and pale yellow puss seeping out infected eyes. A snail-trail of old salvia falls from the heart and glides over your palm.

Comatose, you stare at the bruised fruit cradled in the night-sky napkin before Jade pulls you out of your melancholy by setting down the tea you asked for.

Unsure why you were staring so vividly and tracing each rutting mound of half-chewed fruit, you fold the napkin over your rejected bite and inform your boyfriend, “The fruits gone bad. Did Azul forget to get rid of old stock?” You doubt he did but you are simply asking to fill up conversation space.

His eyes flicker curiously over to what you hold out to him: inners that are rotting in a slimy brownish, pale yellow. “Perhaps he did.”

Before you can get up to do it, Jade takes the plum from your hand and disposes of it in the nearby trash. He leaves you with your napkin; perhaps because he did not see you spit up instead of swallow your bite. You hold it in your hand, over the top of your knee, as wetness seeps through the thin cover of night.

“This should wash the taste out of your mouth,” Jade says, sitting down and pushing the tea he prepared towards you. He has already made sure it has cooled to the perfect temperature.

Meticulous, you think as you lift up the fragile chinaware. It washes through the bruises that have been left in the inner-workings of your throat like a heated river. “Thank you, baby.”

“It is no trouble.”

You squeeze the fruit-heart in your hand, just once for good luck. Truthfully, you don’t know if you will be able to sing again. Too terrified to try, you have been avoiding even humming to fill up silence, worried the tone might be off. Sacrificing your health had seemed natural when you went back into Ramshackle to gather the last belonging that you left behind.

Bowing your head, you sigh. The atmosphere, now that everyone is gone, is so serious. You loathe serious atmospheres and always hope the future has no more in store for you. Always, your hopes are dashed.

So, you try to switch the conversation, “Your flowers are pretty.” You’re curious if he picked them himself or something like the ‘Magical Pendulum’ or another inane sorting device chose them.

Jade glances at them just as you say. “You’re in bloom. Twenty is the cusp of adulthood.”

He smiles handsomely. “Such a notion makes it sound like my previous years had little significance.”

“Well, not like that. But you got internships coming up. Everything has to … turn serious, you know.”

“You must be loathing your next birthday.”

“Hey! I’m staying nineteen forever. I don’t know about you but I’m not ever coming out of my teens.” A chuckling rumble spread across your arm as Jade laughs at your quick nudge. His witch’s hat tilts with his mirth.

Both of you think — unbeknownst to the other half — things should stay like this. Immortal flowers that will never rot. Always in bloom.

[peppermintquartz]

Prompt: Buck and Tommy forget they booked a couples vacation and not wanting to waste it, they go on it together anyways.

It's a week-long trip starting from Las Vegas out to the Grand Canyon and Monument Valley that they booked about four months ago, and they had submitted their claims for time off once they decided. Of course, neither of them had expected then that they are going to be touring as exes instead of boyfriends.

It would be less of an issue if they could have changed their accommodations. As it is, they're stuck sharing rooms throughout seven days. Buck manages to use his charm to swap over to rooms with twin beds, claiming that they booked together for the discount but they're 'just friends'.

Las Vegas is full of distractions, so once the tour briefing is over, Buck finds himself walking around the hotel. He contemplates ducking into the casino, play a couple of hundred dollars before grabbing a bite and turning in for the night, but a quick circuit inside disabuses him of the notion. It's too loud, too bright, too chaotic.

Returning to their room, he's greeted with a familiar muscular back. Tommy looks over his shoulder and takes a breath, before pulling on a black henley. "Hey, uh. I... I was gonna go look for someplace for dinner." He swallows and licks his lips. "You wanna come with or, I mean. If-If you want to be alone, that's cool too-"

"Uh, actually. I'd like to come with. Dinner sounds good." Buck takes a step closer. "But, before we go out to eat, can I... can we talk?"

Tommy stuffs his hands into his pockets and shrugs. "Sure."

The last time they talked, it had ended with Tommy walking out on Buck. Now, Buck stays where he is, in front of the door.

"I don't want this trip to be too awkward," he says. "I mean, even though we're... we're ex-boyfriends now, it's not like you hate me, right?"

"Of course not!" Tommy shakes his head slightly, smiling in disbelief. "That's the last thing I feel about you."

"A-and I don't hate you," says Buck. He tries not to sound too pathetic. "I know I probably, um, I-I did think about it, but I don't. I can't. So, I'm saying that maybe... maybe we can be friends? For now?"

Tommy's expression softens into something tender. He smiles. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Great! Great. We'll just be friends. On this trip. Have fun." Buck inhales deeply and holds out a hand. "Here's to us being friends."

With his eyebrows raised in that uniquely sardonic manner, Tommy stares at the proffered hand, and then looks at Buck. Then he takes it and shakes, firmly. His hand is still as warm and comforting as Buck remembers. "Friends."

It's going to be a difficult week, Buck knows, but maybe they should have started as friends first. Maybe this is their real second chance of making something lasting.

He hopes that Tommy wants to take it, as much as Buck does.

[alacants]

okay so. there was this thing i was thinking about yesterday and how about ferru and rafa really got along, and i think they have a super special relationship (this started because of ferru's comment about people not being there at rafa's retirement, super defensive!!) could be either romantic or platonic idk idk

and then we have the situation with juanki and rafa. he doesn't like him at all because of SEVERAL reasons and it's funny to think that ferru tried to convince him that he was a good person and wasn't that bad at all and juanki was just. not having it 😭

the triangle could be juanki/rafa hating eachother (but do they? jealousy ensues?) juanki/ferru (soulmateism) ferru/rafa (dare i say qpps... maybe...)

I TRIED NOT TO MAKE THIS LONG BUT I HAVE THOUGHTS PLEASEJEHRBR

LOSING MY MIIIIIIIIIIIIIND. perfect!!! spectacular!!!!!!! zero notes!!!!!!!!

that's a lie of course i have notes. or rather thoughts. raferru qpps YES that is EXACTLY it couldn't put my finger on the right phrasing but you got it. insanely important to each other. not fucking tho.

tbh rafa thinks ferru could do better but he's not gonna say that to ferru. juanki can feel him thinking it though. which is rich coming from a grabby little brat always barging in on other people's territory. but that's. fine. for david's sake he is Making An Effort. it's just a lot easier to make an effort when rafa isn't physically present.

...especially because every 1-2 business years they have a huge argument that turns into really angry sex and it's great and that just makes them (juanki) madder and they don't talk for weeks afterward. (which is how ferru knows when it happened. :3)

soulmateism: is soulmateism. <3 and if ferru isn't holding a few only a little excruciating years of pining against juan carlos than neither should rafa.... rafa are you listening to me. rafa.

helpful diagram:

[softquietsteadylove]

Gil is hurt when he protected her from a group of bandits(?) and in a quiet soft moment sees Thena crying for the first time because of him.

I think it would be interesting to read it for the zombie au I think?

"No sudden moves, big guy."

Gil held up his hands, setting his skillet down nice and slow as the knife pressed into Thena's cheek, two men holding each of her arms. He tried to breathe, feeling a cold sweat collect on his brow. "Just...take it easy."

"Oh, this is will be plenty easy."

Thena all but growled at him as the thug ran a finger over her cheek. She snarled at him from under his hand clapped over her mouth. He gave her a slap.

"Hey!"

"I said easy," he pointed the knife at Gil and then brought it back to Thena. "Or wifey here gets the full treatment."

"Look," Gil grunted, his stomach turning at whatever the 'full treatment' would mean to guys like this. "Whatever you want, okay?--supplies, weapons, you name it. But let her go."

"You're timid for a big guy, y'know that?" he got chuckled at, all of them sharing in the amusement. "Relax. You hand over what you brought with you, we'll send you on your merry way."

Thena thrashed at them again, making sure to express her displeasure.

"Although," the one with the knife pulled it away again, just for the insidious pleasure of tilting Thena's chin up to him, "I'd be even more convinced with a little kiss."

"Get down!" Gil threw the skillet almost blindly, hoping that his aim wouldn't let him down this one, incredibly crucial time. It didn't, luckily, and the metal made a loud and pretty damaging sounding 'clang!' as it hit the assailant's skull. "Thena!"

She dropped to the ground, pulling her captors into each other. Her hands gripped the knives they had on their belts, pulling herself up and taking them with her in one smooth move. "Gil!"

Gil reached out for her. She grabbed his cast iron skillet for him on her way. He crouched over her as the bullets started flying. "Go!"

They ran, clean out of the store and not even slowing to check their surroundings as they rushed back outside the building. Thena pulled Gil down behind one of the few cars still remaining, both of them panting for breath.

He winced as a few shots rang through the air. He looked over at Thena, who leaned close to the ground to see under the car. "They're not following us. Not worth it, I imagine."

Gil breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't made for all this. He missed the days of stir frying and dishes and even cleaning the hood fan.

"We should go."

Gil followed Thena's lead, like always. They walked steadily into the treeline, mostly to put distance between themselves and that gang of thugs in case they decided to come after them.

"Here."

Gil let out a sigh, dropping his pack to the ground and all but collapsing onto the forest floor. The adrenaline rush of a fight - let alone with living people - never failed to take it out of him.

"Let me see."

"Huh?" he blinked, finding Thena kneeling down beside him with a hardened look in her eye.

"Gil," she said more gently, and he saw the worried draw of her sandy coloured eyebrows. "You're not walking right, you're breathing unevenly--let me see it."

He should have known she would guess it. Not that he had intentionally hidden it from her either, but they had more important things to worry about, like getting away from the main highway. "Thena, really, it's-"

"Gilgamesh."

"Okay, okay," he murmured at the use of his full name. It wasn't like she never called him that. He just preferred it when she could call him Gil. It made him feel...closer to her, or something.

Thena frowned as he winced, trying to pull his shirt up. She sat herself next to him, pulling the shirt up and away from his side for herself. He flinched as her cold fingers made contact. "You got shot?"

"Well," he peeked around their hands and down at himself. "Not really--they grazed me, I guess. It hurts a little, but it's nothing I'd freak out over."

She glared at him, "you are still bleeding."

"Yeah, but just a little."

Thena gave the inside of his wrist a pinch. "Were you not going to bring this up at all?"

Gil shrugged, blushing faintly as Thena ran her hand over his ribs and his flank muscles, which expanded and contracted with his quickened breathing. "I was...going to find the right time."

Thena gave him an irritated huff before dragging her bag over to them to clean his wound. "And you call me reckless."

"You're pretty reckless."

"I," she pressed some alcohol to the burn and its bleeding, glaring through his whining, "have never hid an injury from you."

Well, that was because Thena didn't get injured: simple problems get simple solutions. Gil groaned as she finally took the stinging cloth away and pressed some cotton to it. "Well, you tell me a good time for me to take off my shirt and-"

"Gil."

Uh-oh. Gil froze. And then he panicked, watching Thena's eyes go glassy and sparkly. She blinked, but the tears weren't the kind she could will away, and soon she was crying. He didn't think he would ever see Thena cry.

"I'm serious," she sniffled, sounding so unlike her usual self. She pressed her palms into her knees, fists clenched tight. Her shoulders hitched as she tried to breathe through her tears. "Y-You got hurt because of me."

"That's not-!"

"It is," she argued, swiping away her tears with both hands only for more to come streaming down her cheeks. "It was m-my idea to split up. And th-they knew you'd come for me--t-to prot-tect me."

Of course he would, though. Of course he would come back for Thena--nothing mattered more to him. "Thena-"

"You do so much," she whispered, finally moving her hands so she could take his in them, holding it with a certain desperation. "I don't know where I would be without you, Gil. So...I can't bear the thought of you getting hurt because of me."

"Hey."

He couldn't imagine what possessed him to do it; he raised a hand to her cheek, brushing his thumb across her tear tracks. She leaned into his touch, ever so slightly--almost reluctantly. It only encouraged him.

"Thena, I have no regrets about protecting you, ever," he asserted, shaking his head as he said it. "And I know you'd do the same for me--it was just my turn today."

She seemed far from satisfied with that argument.

"Do you remember what you said to me the first time you let me join you?--when we left that sporting goods place forever ago?" Gil didn't wait for her to answer, pulling her so he could press her hand to his chest. "You have my back, I have yours."

"Partner," she finished for him, blinking away the last of her tears at the title she had gifted him when they first decided to brave the world together.

"Today I had your back," he sighed. Maybe he could blame it on how tired he felt all of a sudden; Gil pulled her in, holding her against him, just for this moment. "That's all."

"Fine."

Gil chuckled at the very 'Thena' response. He blinked as he felt her hands squirming around, but he felt her wind the gauze around him and tie it off in a little knot. He pulled back to look at her, "did you get hurt at all?"

She shook her head, tugging his shirt back down and resting her hand on his chest again, "thanks to you."

[carlyraejepsans]

for real WHERE does the idea that [utdr humans] are nongendered so that "you can project on them" come from. their literal character arcs are about NOT being a blank slate to be filled in by the audience

i think i understand the assumption on some level for undertale, because there is a very intentional effort to make you identify with the "player character" in order to make your choices feel like your own (the beating heart of undertale's metanarrative lies in giving you an alternative path to violence against its enemies after all, and whether you're still willing to persue it for your own selfish reasons. YOUR agency is crucial).

of course, the cardinal plot twist of the main ending sweeps the rug from under your feet on that in every way, and frisk's individuality becomes, in turn, a tool to further UT's OTHER main theme: completionism as a form of diegetic violence within the story. replaying the game would steal frisk's life and happy ending from them for our own perverse sentimentality, emotionally forcing our hand away from the reset button.

i think their neutrality absolutely aids in that immersion. but also, there's this weird attitude by (mostly) cis fans where it being functional within the story makes it... somehow "editable" and "up to the player" as well? which is gross and shows their ass on how they approach gender neutrality in general lol.

but also like. there's plenty of neutral, non PCharacters in undertale and deltarune. even when undertale was just an earthbound fangame and the player immersion metanarrative was completely absent, toby still described frisk as a "young, androgynous person". sometimes characters are just neutral by design. it's not that hard to understand lol.

anyone who makes this argument for kris deltarune is braindead. nothing else to say about it.

[doctorbrown]

DOCTOBER '24 ⸺ 「 1 / 31 * RED-LETTER DATE 」

“Hey Doc? I wanna ask you something.” 

Emmett doesn’t pop his head through the doorway to acknowledge his friend, too focused on topping off one of the mugs of hot chocolate with a generous helping of marshmallows, but he does shout, “Of course, Marty,” into the air. “You know you don’t have to ask. Let me bring Verne his cup and then you’ll have my undivided attention.”

Marty makes a vague noise that many years of friendship has taught Emmett means sure thing, Doc, and it takes him barely three minutes to drop off the hot chocolate to Verne, who smiled like it was Christmas morning when he saw the mountain of marshmallows floating at the top, and join Marty in the living room, carrying the tray with their own drinks. He passes one of them off to Marty who accepts with a smile and a nod and then takes a seat opposite him, fixing him with an expectant look.

“So, what did you want to ask me?”

Marty’s eyes immediately drift to the shelf, where Emmett and Clara’s small assortment of family photos sit, arranged in elegant wooden frames. In the centre is a black and white photo that has started to yellow around the edges, looking paradoxically fragile and yet able to withstand even the most rigorous tests of time, holding onto that frozen memory for all eternity. Emmett turns his head to follow Marty’s attention, his eyes alighting on the single photo he expects will be the topic of their conversation.

Ah. Out of all of them, there is only one Marty was never able to be present for.

For once, Emmett manages to look perfectly natural in a photograph, even dressed to the nines in a sharp suit. His smile stretches from ear-to-ear, making him look at least ten years younger, and though his face is angled away from the camera, his eyes are bright and alive, brimming with love and warmth. Marty could even imagine the photographer trying to get Emmett’s attention, demanding he look at him for the photo, only for every single word to go in one ear and straight out the other when Clara was standing beside him, smiling, the picture of radiance as she regards her husband with the same fond warmth. Her wedding dress was no more intricate than any of the outfits Marty had seen her wear during his few days in the Nineteenth Century, yet it seemed to be made for her and her alone, perfectly tailored and somehow able to put even the outfits of royalty to shame.

If Clara was the sun, Emmett was the moon that revolved around her. In that single moment, forever frozen in time, they were the only two people on Earth. 

“I had been wanting to ask for a while, but–”

“No, no, of course. You didn’t get the chance to see it, and I’m sorry for that, so I’d be happy to fill you in on the details.”

Marty curls his fingers around the warm mug, shuffling somewhat in his seat, and Emmett waits patiently, noting each one of Marty’s nervous habits as they arise. There are a hundred and one things Marty wants to say, Emmett can see them written across his body, written into every small movement, and, equal and opposite, there are a thousand things Emmett wants to say in return, things he makes an effort to hold back until Marty speaks first.

“I’m happy for you two, Doc–really, I am. Clara’s–well, Clara’s amazing. And I’ve never seen you so happy before. I was afraid that–” Marty shakes his head, his eyes focused on the photographs. “When I first saw the picture, I was…” He forces a laugh, but there’s no humour in it and Emmett would know that self-depreciatory tone anywhere. 

“It’s stupid, I know. I didn’t realise it at first, but I was jealous. Can you believe that, Doc? My best friend is happy, he’s got a family for Christ’s sake, and I was too busy at first being afraid that now you’re–you’re just gonna forget me because you’ve got Clara and the boys and the house and there wouldn’t be a place for me.”

Emmett’s eyes widen despite knowing the blow was coming and before he can open his mouth, allow the words that have been building up on his tongue to break free, Marty shakes his head and continues, reinforcing the wall and keeping the words at bay just a little longer.

“I know what you’re gonna say, Doc. I already said I know it’s stupid but I couldn’t help feeling that way. And I should have asked you about your wedding and everything a lot longer ago but I-I just couldn’t. And that’s fucking stupid, right? I want to know because I couldn’t be there for you and you’ve always been there for me.”

Marty’s words are a blade driven straight through his chest, each word twisting that razor-sharp blade a little more. He can’t help the pang of guilt he feels echoing in his ribcage, scraping against the bars of a prison he will not allow it to escape from, not now. This conversation was a long time coming–he’d almost expected it sooner rather than later, but he knew better than to push, knowing Marty would open up when he was ready–but no amount of anticipation could have prepared him for the blow that hearing it put to words would strike.

The Time Machine’s destruction had not been an accident. Everything had been carefully orchestrated to prevent any further corruption of the timestream, to spare himself the temptation–the broken heart–of trying to go back against all rational, scientific thought.

Ultimately, Marty couldn’t stay in the Nineteenth Century, not if he wanted to live a normal life, not if he wanted to be happy. And he couldn’t allow Marty to become another unsolved disappearance, leaving the McFlys to wonder and agonise over their youngest son who vanished from the face of the Earth without a trace.

Emmett may not have planned to stay, but even he couldn’t predict Clara’s intervention. 

Life had to go on, even under extreme or difficult circumstances. There was only one choice available, then.

Still, Emmett doesn’t hesitate.

“Marty, I could never forget you. Whether we’re in the same time period or separated across the timestream, you will always be my best friend. And I will never stop caring about you. I know things have been busy lately, both for you and for me, what with your college courses and the boys’ schooling and Clara’s acclimation to the Twentieth Century and making the necessary repairs on the house–” Emmett stops himself before he runs off the entire list of seemingly infinitely-growing projects on his list. 

“The point is, nothing is going to change that. And I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel neglected or unwanted at any point, because that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Marty nods, finally pulling his eyes away from the photo to take a good long look at his best friend. 

“I know, Doc. God, I know. You must think I’m an asshole.” 

“You’re not an asshole. Far from it.”

Marty actually smiles at that, swirling his hot chocolate carefully in the cup. “So… You’ll still tell me about your wedding day?”

“Of course I will, Marty.” Emmett pauses for a moment, a thoughtful expression working its way over his face. Then, he smiles, almost conspiratorially as he recalls something of particular note. “The minister certainly wasn’t pleased when we changed until death do us part to something a little more fitting–until the end of time—”

@bttfdoctober

[the-mononoke-facade]

One of these days I'm going to figure out when 瞳 (hitomi) is supposed to be referring to someone's eyes and when it's supposed to be referring to someone's pupils, because slitted/narrowed eyes and slitted pupils have two different connotations, did you narrow your eyes or do you have cat eyes? This is important information okay

[onepiece-polls]

I love your polls and it’s great you try to be on both sides to give fair chance to everyone, but the way you talked about shanks/buggy is crazy They’re fine together but in canon they’re brothers and your shipping googles got so tight you actually sounded like you could believe they’re anywhere close to canon which is u know stupid af

lmao, okay, this came out of nowhere 😂 Like... I talked about that months ago. But okay.

Anyway, Shuggy is canon. They're making out behind you right now.

[nihiltism]

having a platonic cuddle buddy is so cool everybody should have a platonic cuddle buddy. having somebody to come over at a set later time in the day to lay on me for 2 hours and leave is so cool bc it also just. is a manual wind-down. whenever I try to get things done with my night after the buddy leaves I end up just passing out on my computer. manual wind down successful. the only tragedy is this is only one day a week

[multifandomlandfill]

Watching the death note musical and man, I just want to give Light some tea and terrible unlicenced therapy.

[computerpeople]

my mom got very very drunk yesterday and she's an aggressive drunk, not physically but it amplifies her anger and irritation by like 6, and she's already a very very explosive and volatile woman. she got in a fight with her boyfriend and was screaming and drove off to the middle of nowhere and that's why my sister called and im so proud of her for reaching out and asking me to call, and i think she is too, she said she wants to call me more for sure and wants to ask more, and that she felt a lot better after we called. that feels good for me, even if im worrying about it now, at her age i didn't have anyone to turn to or call, so im glad i get to be that for her. i fucking hate my parents man

[silverandebony]

.

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ snuggles for hire

summary: first years try helping you out with your touch-starved problem type of post: short fics (blurbs?) characters: leona, floyd, jade, vil additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

"Really? That's it?" Ace scoffs.

"So, they haven't been hugged in a while. Okay? Neither has Deuce,"

Deuce glares. It's almost menacing. "That's not true, and you know it! I get lots of hugs every time I visit home!"

"I do, too. But that's just the thing, though, ain't it?" Epel says. "They don't have no home to get hugs from."

The huddle of first years goes quiet. Some days, you become such a part of their world, they forget you're really not from it.

"...Okay, point taken," Ace sighs. "But they have Grim! And he only stinks like, half the time!"

"If memory serves, Grim usually sleeps on the floor..." Epel says. "Poor prefect, all lonely. Now even their sleep is suffering 'cause of it!"

Jack rubs the back of his neck. "It must be tough, not having anything to look forward to,"

Another melancholy silence. Finally, Ace stands, hands on his hips.

"Well, let's do something about it, then. There are tons of boys at this school- one of them should be willing to help,"

It's eight in the morning after another disappointing attempt at rest, and now you can't even sleep in. Damn visitors.

You throw open the front door.

"What? What could you possibly- wh- Leona?"

The housewarden smirks. He looks a little too proud of himself for this early in the morning...

"A little wolfie told me you weren't sleeping well. Lucky for you, that's my specialty. Now, are you gonna let me in, or what?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, letting himself in and making himself comfortable on the couch in the foyer.

He pats the spot next to him.

"Listen..." you say. "I don't know what you heard, but I'm fine."

"Don't be proud. I don't pity you, I just... owe you. Now get your butt over here, yeah?"

Leona isn't so scary when he's asleep. He's more like... the world's largest pillow. Of course, you're at risk of being smothered until you crawl into a better position, but once you're on top, he's surprisingly warm and comfortable.

You can tell you're being watched before you hear anything.

And you think you might just know wh-

"Shrimpyyy!"

For two boys so tall, the tweels are awfully quiet. Especially when it comes to "surprising" you in random places. This time: the hall.

Floyd pulls you into a bone-crushing hug while Jade watches from behind, smiling subtly.

When he finally lets you down, you're dizzy. (Though, at this point, you'll take whatever physical touch you can get).

"Shrimpyyy, why didn't you tell us you were lonely? We had to squeeze it outta Spade," Floyd pouts.

"His face makes fascinating expressions when he's afraid," Jade says, merrily.

Before you can answer, Floyd's already got you under his arm (seriously? Where do they find the strength?) and is heading straight towards the hall of mirrors.

You already know there's no getting out of this one...

Floyd is, unsurprisingly, all over, from leaning his whole body weight against you to lying across your lap, to biting your shoulder (in his sleep...?) Oh, and he drools, too.

Jade sits on your other side, one hand holding yours, the other leafing through an almanac from twenty years ago.

You're almost hesitant to admit just how nice it really is.

"And nothing else has worked?" Vil says, throwing open the door to your bedroom with no regard for a "hello" or, "how are you?"

You blink. "...Hello to you, too. May I ask what you're talking about?"

He storms inside, standing over you with his hands on his hips.

"Just that I overheard Epel Felmier asking my vice housewarden if he would be willing to satisfy your need for physical affection. You've been struggling? With sleep? And you didn't think to come to me, first?"

He almost sounds... offended that you didn't.

"...Well... I wasn't making a big deal about it,"

"So, no teas, no vitamins, no pills- nothing has helped?"

You shake your head. He sighs.

"Perhaps it is purely psychological... very well. Get up. I hope you don't toss and turn much, I'm a light sleeper,"

Vil is completely still when he sleeps. No tossing, no turning, no drooling, no snoring. He also insists on sleeping on his back, you, clinging to his side, and a single arm around you. Just as elegant as when he's awake. He'd be a true sleeping beauty if not for the mumbles of nonsense that come from him every few minutes. You swear you can make out your own name, once or twice or three times...

He is warm nonetheless, and his mumbles and idle stroking of his fingers on your waist is enough to satisfy you for a night of good sleep.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

My sister rang me today.

Ever since she was six, she's had pain in her legs, which turns into pain in her hips and back for stretches of time. She's tried for years to get a diagnosis, with absolutely no joy. As a kid they thought she had collapsed arches in her feet; then it became clear her feet were fine, but something was wrong with her tendons; and then in her 20s they just shrugged it off with a "We'll never know probably" and that was that. She keeps on top of it with daily yoga, generally, though flare ups happen periodically. If she has to pause the yoga for some reason, she fairly rapidly regresses. Currently she has plantar fascitis again, which has halted everything once more, so right now she's back into a pain slump.

Anyway, she called me today while going from Doctors to pharmacy to get the codeine they've prescribed her for it.

"I think one of my yoga moves to help the fascitis might have exacerbated the legs," she said. "Trouble is, there's never been a diagnosis. I just have to trial and error what might help."

... And I had one of those lightbulb moments, you know? My brain suddenly went "Wait hang on, this is very familiar isn't it?" and rang the bells of memory.

"Did they ever test you for fibromyalgia?" I said.

They had not. It's never been suggested, even. My sister said she'd look up the symptoms and see if it chimed, and rang off.

Fifteen minutes later, she calls back.

Turns out she got to the pharmacy and gave them the prescription. While waiting, she googled fibromyalgia symptoms and found the NHS website.

"It was like someone had written a profile of me," she tells me on the phone. "Like, spookily, scarily accurate to me, right down to the temperature regulation bit. It felt like a practical joke."

And of course, as she stood there in the pharmacy, suddenly staring at the age of forty at the apparent answer she's been trying to get since she was six years old, she burst into tears.

"Oh no!" Said the pharmacist, hurdling the counter in a single leap and scattering the queue (I am exaggerating for humorous affectation.) "Quickly! Come into our little exam room, we'll get you tissues and water!"

My sister was duly ensconced into a Safe Place, and encouraged to cry it out. It took several hiccuping minutes, but finally, she managed to calm down and get back to an Extremely Watery Smile.

"Do you want to talk about it?" the pharmacist asked sympathetically.

"It's just..." my sister said, overwhelmed and searching for words. "My whole life I've been in pain, and they've never found why..."

"Ah," said the pharmacist thoughtfully. "Have you explored fibromyalgia?"

...

"TWICE IN ONE DAY," my sister yells on the phone to me later. "HOW THE HELL HAVE TWO SEPARATE PEOPLE ON THE SAME DAY FINALLY GIVEN ME THE ANSWER, AND NEITHER OF YOU IS A DOCTOR"

Anyway she has a doctor's appointment for tomorrow to discuss it, so we'll see