#now onward to my bath

[4-the-l0ve-0f-art]

Reverse isekai... Caleb... Cat... Part 2 Link Ao3 Link

Caleb loved you more than anything in this world. 

Or at least, that's what you would've liked to imagine if he was real. But he isn't. And you're not in a pixelated little world called Linkon City and none of your hopes and dreams about having a happily ever after with your military husband and childhood best friend were coming true. 

You stared at the fanfic left open on the phone screen, wishing to see your husband in your dreams to ease the ache of loving someone you could never have while in your loneliest moments. 

If only he could be real. If only he could become real from Astra knows what power and fall in love all over again. With you this time instead of the MC who seemed to resemble anything but you. If only. Too much to ask for, yes, you know. 

No, he wasn't real, and no, he wasn't there to fall in love with you as you did with him. And you had your own life to live and work to do and tough times to get through on your own tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. 

So, leaving you no other choice, you drifted off to sleep as the delusion shattering ache in your heart seeped in.

-

It was raining. You opened up your umbrella next to the entrance of your workplace, greeting your coworkers goodbye. You were tired. Your brain was fried from working since morning and you felt like the walking dead. 

The thoughts of cooking something up for dinner made you feel like flopping down on the sidewalk you were walking on and passing out. You had the free will to do that, of course, but the rain pitter pattering along with your dragged steps only reminded you of all the cleaning you would have to do after practicing your so-called free will. 

The street lights turned on and you continued onward, just a block away from your home. 

As you walked by an alleyway, your heart almost jumped out of your chest at the sound of metal clashing onto the ground. You froze, holding your breath as you turned around. 

You waited. 

One beat. Two beats. 

Nothing. 

And then, there it was again, the sound of something thuding around. 

Without thinking, you made your way towards the source of the sound, your heart bearing in your ears. A dumpster came into view. 

Something, or someone, seemed to be struggling inside. You called out. 

“Hello..? Is anyone in there..?” Your voice trembled. 

No reply.

You slowly got close to the dumpster and opened the cover with shaking hands. 

Widened blue-pink eyes with a pair of black ears and tail stared up at you through the piles of garbage. 

“What the fuck?”

-

The cat jumped out of your hold as soon as you entered your home, shaking off water from its fur and scampering away from you as fast as it could while you were struggling to put down the wet umbrella. 

“Okay, rude? I bring you home with me to avoid the guilty conscience that would follow tomorrow if I found you dead from the cold somewhere and you pay me off by drenching my floorboards!”

You let out a frustrated sigh. 

He silently watched you from a corner of the room as you made your way to the kitchen island to wash off your hands. 

“Make yourself at home, I guess..” You mumbled, more to yourself than to him. 

I have a cat in my apartment. What now? 

-

First and foremost, it was bathtime. You were NOT about to let a stinky ass wet fur ball run around your home. 

You tried to pick him up again but he bolted around the living room, paw pads making skittering noises in the process.

After about 10 minutes of running around, you gave up, standing defeated. You called out to him as a last resort. 

“I just want to give you a bath. Please.”

“Mreow!” He protested, sitting on top of the kitchen island. 

“Fine. Whatever. Live with the stink all you want. I'm tired and you're taking up my gaming time.” You rolled your eyes. 

Maybe leaving him alone for a while will ease him a little.. You hoped. 

And so, you turned around and sat down on the couch with the TV remote in hand, ready to open YouTube and rewatch the same goddamn trailer for the 100th time. 

[Love and Deepspace | Caleb's Trailer]

-

He didn't know how he ended up here. One moment he was feeling immense, needle pricking pain across his entire body, the next he was in a dumpster. With paws instead of hands. And the world seemed thrice as large and intimidating. 

Well, At least I have shelter from the rain for now.. Though I feel like a wet rat. 

He watched the girl settle down on the couch. 

I wonder how long I can stay here. I need to figure things out..

Then, he heard something that caught his eye. 

“What, you don't recognize me?”

He stared at the video playing on the TV screen. 

“Did you honestly think I would always be the kind hearted boy from your childhood?”

His ears perked up, all pointy, and his eyes widened. 

That's me. 

He watched as the figure on the screen bit an apple as lightning flashed in the background. 

That. Is. Me. On the TV. 

A/N: Interest check? Very self indulgent... Kinda, sorta, really wanna turn this into a one-shot fic maybe... Haha.. Ha.. But I'll have to play through all the content released in the past few months.. 😭

Wrote this half asleep someone bonk me to sleep please

[fireinmoonshot]

A/N: This is a masterlist for my JOAQUÍN TORRES x READER fics from the MARVEL fandom. Everything on this list was written from February 2025 onwards and it will be updated accordingly as I continue to write for Joaquin in the future!

DRABBLES

Joaquin + giving you his jacket when you're cold.

Joaquin + being surprised when you're clingy.

Joaquin + giving you flowers

Joaquin + reading comments about himself online.

Joaquin + sobbing when he watches movies.

Joaquin + wanting to learn how to braid your hair.

Joaquin + loving to hear you call him 'husband'.

Joaquin + you loving his natural curly hair.

Joaquin + holding your handbag for you.

Joaquin + loving to call you 'my wife'.

Joaquin + you scratching his back to help him sleep.

Joaquin + you watching him shaving.

Joaquin + him brushing your hair for you.

Joaquin + being clingy when you're away.

“You always know the exact temperature I like my baths at.”

Joaquin + getting your lipstick on him when you kiss.

Joaquin + falling asleep together on the couch.

"So what? You're dating them now?" (Part One)

"Why don't you get it?" (Part Two)

ONE SHOTS 

Strawberry Danishes - 2.7k

Soft Hearted - 4.1k

Touchy - 1.6k

Kiss It Better - 1.6k

About Love - 4k

Gold Rush - 2.9k

Nightmares - 2.1k

First Impressions - 1.5k (Part One)

Second Impressions - 2.1k (Part Two)

That Damn Kiss - 1.8k

Gorgeous - 1k

Dream of You - 1.1k

Misunderstanding - 3.1k

Protective - 1.7k

Love That Lasts - 4.2k

Home Safe - 1.5k

All This Time - 7.8k

Patience, Baby - 1.7k

Heart of Gold - 1.6k

[gloomskulls]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚SQUEAKY CLEAN [tasm!peter parker x reader]

pairings: tasm!peter parker x reader

⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ peter wants to be pampered and bathe by you after being dirtied up by some robbers

⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ fluff, wounds, peter falling lol, mud and dirt, lemme know if i missed any!

A/n: you know what was so funny? this was actually supposed to be a smut, but I low key don't feel like a whore today lol. Btw don't steal my shi, coz that will also make you shit.

The sound of hurried footsteps passed outside your apartment window, and although startled, you relaxed when you recognized the familiar person in a spandex suit coming closer. Peter always had a flair for dramatics and entrances, but tonight it seemed to be more chaotic than before. Moments later, the window creaked open, and he stumbled in, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

"Peter!" You rushed to his direction.

His Spider-man mask was drawn up to his nose, exposing a sheepish grin underneath. However, that was not the most alarming part—his suit was torn by mud and faint scratches could be seen through some torn parts on the arms.

"Hey, babe," He spoke, trying to sound casual, "before you say anything, it's the puddle that did it."

Raising an eyebrow, you replied, "Oh? The puddle did it?"

"Well, robbers started it, but the puddle finished it, long story short story—I won. Kind of." He gestured at his muddy, disheveled state.

You sighed, crossing your arms. "Let me guess—you couldn't resist some unnecessary flips to show off and got humbled by gravity?"

"Most shockingly accurate," he said with a weak grin of admission. "But can we save the sass for later? I think that puddle has some kind of grudge against me. Ow." He gestured to a particularly nasty scrape on his arm.

Shaking your head slightly with fond exasperation, you took his hand and led him off to the bathroom. "Come on, bug boy. We need to clean you up before you start the next supervillain origin story with an infected wound."

Peter followed you like a chastised puppy

As you pushed Peter onwards the bathroom door, the mud and dirt clung to the Spider-Man suit and was slowly soaking into the blood oozing from his injury during a fight with robbers. You could see the fatigue in his eyes; all his responsibilities as Spider-Man were now heavy burdens on his shoulders. But even such a rugged appearance could not take away that magical spark in his gaze that seemed to ignite every time he looked your way.

After switching on the light in the bathroom and rummaging through the cabinet for a first aid kit, you told him, "Sit," motioning to the edge of the bathtub.

He plopped down obediently, resting his elbows on his knees. You knelt in front of him, carefully peeling back the torn fabric of his suit to inspect the damage.

You quickly grabbed the first aid kit, but before you could even get it open, Peter looked up at you with those hollow eyes and said, "I'm filthy. Mind if I take a shower?"

You nodded with rival emotions raging inside you — one was concern; the other was something you could not figure out entirely. "Well, go ahead. The first aid kit is here, so take a shower, and then we got time to tend to your wounds."

He then put his voice into some very vulnerable tone and asked, "Could you… bathe me? I'm feeling a bit weak."

You should have figured. You saw his wounds; it was nasty but not fatal, something you probably get when you fall of a bike.

You threw him a derisive look. "Peter Parker, if this is some kind of trick just to get me to pamper you—"

"Okay, no, I'm serious this time! Scout's honor," he interrupted, holding up his hand in mock solemnity.

You roll your eyes as you grabbed a towel and tossing it over your shoulder. "Fine. But no funny business Parker."

Helping Peter shower is actually a bit less embarrassing than you'd thought it would be, at least to begin with. You stand outside the tub, holding him at the detachable showerhead while you rinse off the muddy spots on his back, being careful not to touch any cuts or bruises.

"This is so degrading," he mutters, but with a tone that clearly says 'he'd rather be caught dead' than annoyed at the present moment.

"Degrading? You begged me to get in here and help you, buddy," you shot back, scrubbing at an especially stubborn piece of dirt on his shoulder.

He winces before laughing quietly. "Yeah, but it's kind of nice, you know? Being taken care of."

The pause lengthens and your heart grows soft. "You're so dramatic. Well, maybe if you didn't jump into danger every night, I wouldn't have to."

"Fair enough," he says, turning to face you. His eyes have softened now, teasing mood all gone. "Thanks for this. For everything."

You smile and reach up to brush away a strand of wet hair from his forehead. "Don't mention it. That being said, turn your face around; there's still mud on it."

He muttered, "You know, if I weren't in so much pain, this would be kinda romantic."

You laugh, shaking your head. "You're impossible, Peter Parker."

Peter is now cleaned, bandaged, and dressed up. Sprawled on the couch, looking much more like himself. He grabs your hand as you pass by and tugs you down beside him.

"You are amazing," he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

"And you are exhausting," you reply, but you cannot hide your smile.

"Perfect match," he quips, pulling you into his arms.

You roll your eyes but snuggle closer, because you would trade this chaos for nothing.

@gloomskulls 2024. DON'T COPY, TRANSLATE OR USE ANY OF MY WORKS HERE OR ANY OTHER WEBSITES. Photos don't belong to me

[puripurin]

— Dance Partner!Yan, who was the embodiment of child star when he was 9 with his flexibility and incredible dance skills at such a young age, made him a little— scratch that, a massive little shit from the numerous praises he was showered with. That was until you stepped foot into the studio he was practicing at with your parents.

You, back then as a 9 year old child, didn't come from a wealthy family, but that didn't stop your parents from saving up until they could afford 2 months of dance practice lessons. It wasn't cheap either as the dance studio became popular from just him alone, but it was worth it for your safety as a child.

Almost immediately, he was infatuated with you. Talking with you, helping you, and just being overly friendly towards you. There was no doubt he was never going to let you go, even as a 9 year old. That's why he volunteered (well closer to asking his parents to threaten his dance coach) to be your one and olny dance partner.

You were ecstatic until you realized that you only had a week left of your dance lessons. Of course, you were sad and kind of embarrassed, but you wanted your parents to spend the money on other things other than something so frivolous, so you never said anything.

That first day when he found out that you weren't coming back was a nightmare. He was screaming and crying for you to come back, and he even lost his voice, so he resorted to isolating himself.

When you eventually came back later that day because of the frantic calls that your parents had gotten, he held on to you tight for hours and was only babbling incoherent sentences. From that day onwards, his parents were paying for you to go to the dance studio so that something like that never happens. Which leads you to the current day him.

Dance Partner! Yan was heavily affected by that incident, so now you and him were together for almost everything. Sleeping, bathing, cooking, and, obviously, dance performances. He always knows where you are, and you always know where he is.

He thinks that you are his one and only and will die on that hill forever. He's even made sure that you and him lost your virginity to one another.

Along with never allowing anyone to be your dance partner. If there was a new person who hadn't been informed of your relationship with one another and insisted on talking to you, his touchiness blows through the roof. He'll start groping you and making you flushed more obviously to deter that person away.

"Now, now, stop getting feisty. You don't think I'm tired of making sure people know that you are mine?"

Awoop, art jumscare that is partly finished. Ofc its Cecil and Clear. Some parts look bad, but idc. Im not planning for art to be my main hobbie, and i rarely draw.

Also, here's some more images? Imagines?? Ummm, whichever one is the corect one.

Also another character added to my ever so slightly increasing roster of ocs. I was gonna write the the other charas but this was siting in my head rent free like, I let you come and live her for free and I don't even charge you rent?? The disrespect i just underwent.

Anyways, it was originally going to be a dance instructor slowly getting possessvie over you and only teaching you lewd dances then it actually became dance partner yan. So un yeah wwoop.

Noy preoofread

[obvithe-bestsoph]

the most impatient patient.

masterlist requests word count: 4.3k

a/n: this took so long and i just know it's gonna flop omg 😭 i hope you enjoy! it's another one that has the possibility for chapter two, but it also works on its own. let me know! genre: kinda angsty but not really, fluff? warnings: a singular swear word, pedri has low self esteem for some parts but nothing graphic, grumpy pedri.

You pull into the area you’ve been told to park in and take a few deep breaths before getting out after shutting the engine off. Here you are, your first day at your dream job. The pristine grounds of Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper are bathed in the early morning Barcelona sun, making the whole place seem even more special. The four years you had been spent studying physiotherapy, you had been dreaming of today. And now it’s here. Mierda.

It’s ridiculously exciting, but also, there’s a lot of pressure on you. Being one of the youngest of the physiotherapy staff, just 22 years old, but now a part of one of the most important and relied upon medical teams in European football. And being the youngest comes with the added pressure of having to prove yourself to the seniors of the physio team as well. 

One of the seniors, Pablo, actually comes out to meet you in the carpark so he can show you where to go. You spend most of the morning just shadowing him and other more experienced physios until Pablo comes to you as you’re taking a coffee break, a clipboard in his hand. 

“Good news, you’ve already got your first patient.” he smiles and hands you the clipboard, briefing you a little as you look over it. 

“You’ll be looking after Pedri’s recovery sessions from this afternoon onwards, his injury isn’t too serious, some muscle issues in the quad, but he’s out of action, and he’ll be your main and only patient for the next few weeks until he’s back out on the pitch again,” Pablo explains.

Pedri González. The Pedri González as you’re first ever patient. Talk about throwing you in the deep end. 

Of course, you know who he is. You’ve watched him on TV, and seen him in action a few times, moving across the field in a way that almost makes it look easy, getting through defenders like they aren’t even there. Now, he’s your responsibility. Just thinking about it makes your stomach flip. You nod and smile at Pablo who leaves you with the clipboard and walks off again. It’s gonna be a big day.

When you enter the recovery room at 3 PM, the scheduled appointment time, Pedri is already there, sitting on the treatment table with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting. His dark hair is damp from what you can assume to be a shower, and he looks at you with a mixture of curiosity and slight frustration.

“Are you my new therapist?” he asks. His tone is polite but distant, clearly he’d rather be anywhere else. 

You take a deep breath and nod, forcing confidence into your voice. “That’s me. My name’s Y/N… you seem to be a very impatient patient, relax a little, sí?” you introduce yourself with a smile. 

His lips twitch ever so slightly, like he’s trying not to smile at the little comment, but he doesn’t argue against it either. “I hate sitting out,” he murmurs, flexing his upper leg, “I feel fine. I could probably even train tomorrow.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, glancing at his file on the clipboard you had been given. Minor muscle strain, it’s nothing serious, but rushing recovery could make it worse.

“Yeah, you think you feel now, but if you push yourself too hard, too soon, you’ll be out for way longer than necessary,” you reply firmly, crossing your arms too, “And I’m sure you wouldn’t enjoy that. So, a few weeks of careful rehab, or even longer than that watching from the sidelines?”

He huffs at your words but for the first time since you walked in, he really looks at you. There’s a hint of something in those brown eyes of his, respect, maybe? Or maybe he’s just surprised that you’re not intimated by him or put off by his slight grumpiness. 

Pedri exhales, relenting. “Fine, but only if you make this as un-boring as possible.” You smirk slightly, grabbing some massage balm off the shelf, “I think I could make that happen.”

Pedri’s recovery sessions begin the next morning, and from the second he walks in, it’s obvious he already hates this. 

Although his expression doesn’t show much, his body language pretty much speaks for itself. His shoulders are tensed, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his training shorts, and when he sits on the treatment table, he bounces his knees up and down impatiently. He clearly doesn’t want to be here, he’d much rather be out on the pitch, with a ball at his feet. Something which you decide is fair enough. 

“You’re early,” you note, putting your things down next to your desk before sitting down and turning on the computer, looking over his file once more and then standing up to get the resistance bands out. 

The man simply shrugs a little, “My mamá taught me it’s rude to be late. Plus, the sooner we start, the sooner I’m back.”

You sigh, already knowing this is going to be a difficult process. Athletes hate being told to slow down. Their whole lives revolve around this sport that they love so much, and now, they have to spend weeks, or however long, doing exercises and taking things carefully. 

In Pedri’s eyes, you’re the person standing between him and the game he loves. He’s so fed up with injuries that he just wants to be back and be back for good. 

“That depends,” you reply, kneeling beside him to check how much he can comfortably move the muscle, “If you actually listen to me, we’ll get you back faster. If you ignore my instructions, we might as well cancel your next couple of games now.” 

It’s silent for a moment before Pedri gives you a look, one that’s half amused and half skeptical. Just like the previous afternoon, something flickers in his eyes - surprise. Maybe he expected you to be quiet, and easily pushed to the side. But you aren’t here to be ignored. You’re here to get him back on his game and stay on it. 

Starting with a few simple stretching exercises, guiding him as he goes, it’s not long before you notice that he’s doing literally everything with a bare minimum level of effort like he’s pushing the boundaries to see how little he can get away with. 

“You’re holding back.” you huff, watching his form. Pedri smirks ever so slightly and shrugs, “Maybe you’re just making it too easy.”

“Oh, really? Is that what it is? Let’s make it harder then, superestrella.”

You change his band to an even tighter one, challenging his stability, and it only takes a few moments before he’s actually working. The cocky attitude he had put on just minutes ago disappears as he really focuses, muscles tense, breathing controlled and calm. 

On a particularly tough set, you watch his jaw tick in frustration and you gently stop him to take a break. 

“I know you’re used to winning,” you say, handing him a water bottle, “but sometimes you have to have to lose a few times before you can win. You know the saying, there has to be rain for there to be a rainbow?” “Yeah, but I hate losing. It’s not really my thing.” “Then let’s win this recovery, hm?” Pedri looks up at you again, something shifting in the air - it’s small but important. In this moment, he realises that maybe you aren’t just another therapist, but instead, someone he can trust.

Throughout the next few weeks, Pedri’s morning and afternoon rehab sessions become apart of your routine. You see him nearly every day, working through various stretching drills, resistance training and strength exercises. His progress is moving along nicely, but he has very little patience.

“You’re holding me back,” he grumbles one afternoon after you gave him a firm instruction to ‘slow down’.

“No, I’m making you don’t hurt it more. Yes, you’re an elite athlete, but you’re not a superhero. Your body needs time, and if you want it to keep serving you to the level you need it to, you have to respect that.”

He breathes out harshly, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “I just feel useless sitting out on so much training and so many matches.” 

You stop for a minute, simply watching him. He hasn’t admitted how much this is weighing on him before. You can hardly imagine what it’s like, the fans and media constantly talking, the expectations, the pressure to always perform at the highest level. No one likes being injured, but for Pedri, it’s more than frustration. It’s almost some sort of insecurity. 

“You aren’t useless,” you say in a gentler tone, “you’re in rehab. Injuries and physio is a part of being a footballer just as much as playing is.”

And he listens. He doesn’t say anything else, or even smile, but the look in his eyes tells you that he’s grateful for your words.

Since that afternoon, there’s been a lot less tension between the two of you. He stops arguing and fighting everything, instead starting to trust your process more. The way you do things is a lot different to any physios he’s had in the past, so he’s hoping maybe your new approach will help with this constant battle he seems to be having with injuries. 

One morning, during a particularly intense session, he slumps back against the may and closes his eyes, letting out a long sigh. “This is torture.” You chuckle, “No, it’s progress.” “Laughing while I’m basically dying over here makes it seem like you enjoy watching me suffer.” he groans. 

“Maybe a little. But that’s only because I know it’s working.”

He opens one eye and smiles at you, a real smile. Not the usual polite, almost ‘media’ smile he usually gives. 

One evening, you both stayed later than usual and despite the fact that the session is over, he isn’t at all in a rush to leave. 

“Did you always want to do this?” he asks out of the blue, fiddling with a resistance band. “Physiotherapy?” You nod, pausing your tidying. “Yeah. I wanted to help athletes recover. There’s something rewarding about it, you know?”

“Why a physio though? Why not a doctor? Or a coach?” You laugh softly, “I like being the person that keeps people at their best you know, not just watching from the sidelines.” He puts the band down, and looks up at you as you continue moving around, packing things away and wiping down equipment. “I guess I’m in good hands then.”

You can’t figure out what it is, but there’s something about the way he said it like he was inadvertently saying that he trusted you.

He said his good night, collected his stuff up and left the gym. The room is silent again, and you start to realise something dangerous.

You’re starting to care about him.

A few days after that rather tough session, the air between the two of you feels different. It’s a subtle change, but your conversation are not just about football and recovery now. There’s some sort of casual friendliness there. Now, when he comes in in the mornings, you usually greet him with a smile, getting one back and making a few jokes here and there, without the strict physio and patient tension. 

That afternoon, having just finished some strengthening exercises, Pedri looked out the window at the gloomy clouds hanging over the pitches outside. “Looks like it’s going to rain, " he said.

Glancing at your watch you nod, “I saw that on the weather this morning, good thing we’ve finished a little earlier than usual then, hm?” 

He collects up his bag, but doesn’t leave yet, “I was thinking of walking home, but I suppose it’s not exactly the nicest condition outside.” You look up and outside as well, the rain now pouring heavily, “I can drive you?” you offer casually, typing away at his file. 

He turns around, clearly surprised. “Really? It’s probably out of your way. Are you sure?” 

Switching off the computer, you turn around on your swivelling stool and stand up, “I’m sure. I’ve been meaning to try and leave earlier anyway.”

The car ride feels relaxed and comfortable, when it goes quiet, it isn’t tense or awkward but more just comfortable and open. Pedri talks a little about his past experiences recovering from injuries, how much he hates being away from the game, and the constant pressure that comes from being such a high-performing athlete. 

“You know, sometimes, I kinda just wish I was ‘normal’ again, you know?” he admits quietly, gaze fixed on the raindrops that slowly make their way down the window. “Like, I could go out somewhere without people noticing me or taking photos.” “That’s fair enough,” you sympathise, “it must be hard living the way all you football players do.” He chuckles slightly, “Sometimes not exactly all it’s cracked up to be, no.”

It goes quiet again. 

“I really appreciate you driving me, you know. It was stupid of me not to check the weather before deciding to walk today.” you see his head turn to look you out of the corner of your eye. 

You nod, a silent ‘you’re welcome’, and surprisingly, he speaks up again. “You’re actually, uh, pretty cool to hang out with, you know?” his voice is a bit softer and a bit shyer than before. Your smile grows. “Thanks, Pedri, you’re, um… pretty cool too.”

The days pass as usual, and you and Pedri’s relationship continues to change. You know a decent amount about how he got here, and what he’s like outside of football, all about his dog and his family and many other random bits and pieces. At first, it was subtle jokes and smiles, him opening up about how he’s feeling about physio and the pressure he feels in everyday life. But one thing’s for sure, it’s getting harder and harder to keep it 100% professional around him. 

It’s been a long day of strength exercises and Pedri leans against the wall, drinking water, his body clearly having worked hard today. The banter that you’ve become used to isn’t there, the air is almost… tense, and you’re waiting up on his terms.

“Do you ever get tired?” you look at him, his expression unreadable and tone quieter than usual. 

Surprised by the question, you raise an eyebrow. “Tired of what?” “Of all this,” he gestures around the small gym, “of being around players with patience thinner than a spider’s web, of the constant pressure of trying to fix everyone else.” 

You’re caught off guard because that was definitely not what you were expecting him to ask. But despite your surprise, he stares at you, waiting for an answer.

“I guess I don’t really think about it in that way,” you admit. “I kinda just focus on doing my job, but I can see how some people might find it stressful.”

He nods, the unreadable expression turning into a small smile. “You’re good at it - helping people, that is.”

Your expression changes to somewhat surprised, and you chuckle, unsure how to respond, but you don’t have to, because he speaks up again. “I mean, you’re always so calm and focused, even when I’m being an impatient dickhead.”

His words settle for a minute before you realise that maybe he also doesn’t just see you as his physio anymore, but instead as someone who genuinely wants the best for him.

“Well,” you start, taking a deep breath to think about what you’re going to say, “it’s not always easy, but I try.” 

Pedri’s face softens. “You make it look easy.”

The gym falls silent for a few moments, neither of you really knows what to say. Instead, Pedri just moves to start collecting up his things and you go back to wiping down the bench he had been using. You feel a gentle hand being placed on your shoulder from behind. “Gracias, Y/N. See you in the morning.” Pedri smiles, removing his hand once you turn your head and show him your attention, but just give him a quick “Adios.” before turning around again, hiding your pink face. 

That night, lying in bed, you stare up at the ceiling, just thinking. What if the lines between patient and… something else have already started to blur? And how much longer can you pretend you haven’t noticed?

On the Monday of the next week, Pedri arrives at the morning session without a smile, instead, it’s an expression of his that you’ve become familiar with, frustration, masked as indifference. He doesn’t speak much and just goes through the motions of rehab, but the focus he’d gained in the past couple weeks isn’t there, and his movements are more careless than usual. Something’s up with him, and you don’t miss it. 

“Something on your mind?” you ask, careful to keep your tone neutral. 

He grumbles and shakes his head, “Nothing. Just a rough weekend.” Instead of pushing, you just let him go through the routine, but the more he does, the more irritated he seems to get. His patience is running even thinner than usual. His last straw is when he messes up a simple drill, throwing the resistance band on the floor in front of him and mumble curses under his breath. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” you say, crossing your arms. “Talk to me. What on earth is going on with you?”

Attempting to not yell, cry, or throw something else, Pedri runs a hand through his hair. The muscle in his jaw ticks, and he snaps back at you. “You really want to know?” His voice is even sharper than usual, his anger clear. “I’m sick of this. Sick of feeling so genuinely unhelpful to the team. Sick of the way people talk about me like I’m some broken thing that needs fixing.”

You take a step closer, and speak in a firm tone. “Pedro, look at me.” 

His brown eyes flick up to your face. 

“No one thinks you’re broken.”

He gives you a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Come on, you see it too. More than anyone else. You just don’t say it.” The way he looks at you as if he’s challenging you to tell him he’s wrong, makes your heart ache. You’ve seen athletes break under pressure before, but this is different. This is something personal inside him.

You sit down on the mat next to him, nudging him with your shoulder. “You’re frustrated, I get it,” you say softly, looking into his eyes once more, “But this? This isn’t about your injury, is it?”

His expression falters. He looks away, sighing heavily, his shoulder sagging forward like he’s too exhausted to keep up the front anymore. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice quiet, “Just, everything that’s usually so simple and easy feels so out of my control. And the only time I feel properly like myself at the moment is here. With you.”

His words are definitely unexpected, and they hit you hard. Your heart stumbles in your chest and for a moment, you don’t know what to say at all. Pedri doesn’t look away this time, not trying to hide or cover up what he said. Unsure of how to comfort him, you just pull him into your side for a hug.

The truth is hanging in the air now.And the scariest part? You don’t quite know what to do with it. 

You know you should say something, anything, but your brain is muddled, your heart confused. 

You look down at him, his head resting on your chest, those beautiful brown eyes already looking up at you. “Pedri…” you start, but hesitate, because what do you even say? You’ve spent weeks keeping a fairly professional distance, attempting to convince yourself that whatever flickered between the two of you was just a passing moment, just a small moment formed through the fact that you have been spending so much time with each other. 

He sighs, shaking his head, sitting up straight again, “You don’t have to say anything, I just-” he pauses, running a hand over his face, “I just needed to be honest.; Because whatever this is, it’s been messing with my head, and I can’t keep pretending it’s not there.” Your heart pounds. He’s told you his side, and now he’s leaving it up to you to decide what happens next. Your logical brain tells you to shut it down. This isn’t how things are supposed to go. You’re the physio, he’s the patient, messing with that could make a lot of things a hell of a lot more complicated. 

But there’s another part of you, the one that remembers every time you caught him staring at you, every time you felt your cheeks turn pink from him smiling when he walked in, how butterflies appear in your stomach every time he touches you. 

“You’re not imagining things,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. 

His head snaps up, eyes looking into yours, a flicker of relief in his expression. 

“But that doesn’t mean it’s simple,” you add quickly. “You know that, right?”

Pedri nods, “I know. But I don’t really care, honestly.” 

You let out a breathy laugh. “You should.” “I can’t,” he admits. “Because when I’m around you, it’s one of the only times I feel like I’m not just ‘Pedri, the player’. And if I lose that… then I’m trapped as Pedri the player all the time, and I don’t want that for myself.” 

Your chest tightens at his honesty. He’s not kidding around and bantering now. He’s not asking for something causal either. He’s telling you his feelings, trusting you with something that not many other people get to see.

For the first time, you allow yourself to really think of him in a way that is more than a patient. It’s terrifying. It’s complicated. But it’s honest, and it’s real. 

And you don’t think you can ignore it anymore. 

The air is thick with tension, and Pedri’s words continue to echo through your head, your own confession feeling like a weight lifted and a burden gained all at once. 

You know what you should say. ‘This can’t happen. This is too unprofessional, too complicated, too risky.’ You should remind him that your job is to help him recover, not to fall for him. 

But then you look at him. The way his dark hair sits so perfectly, his tanned skin, the stubble that covers his cheeks, chin and upper lip, his long eyelashes, and those brown eyes. They’re always the killer.

“Pedri…” You take a slow, deep breath, trying to calm yourself, “If we do this, we have to be careful.” 

His eyebrows lift slightly, surprised. “So you’re saying..?”

You hesitate, but there’s no point in denying it now. “I’m saying that I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel this anymore.” For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s making sure he heard you right. Then, his mouth slowly grows into that smile, the one that you’ve spent far too long pretending didn’t affect you. 

“I was really hoping you’d say that,” he murmurs, shifting closer. 

You shake your head, trying to keep your thoughts straight despite the heat spreading through your body. “This is going to be complicated.” “I really don’t care.” “You really should. This is technically wrong, you know. I’m not meant to have ‘romantic interactions with patients.’”

“Maybe, but I don’t.” His voice is steady and certain. “I’ve spent the last few weeks learning how to be patient, how to take things one step at a time. This?” He gestures between the two of you. “This is no different.”

You laugh breathily once more, despite the mess in your head. “You’re comparing us to his recovering.” He grins, a proper grin, and it’s the most genuine one you’ve seen from him in over a fortnight. “If it works, it works.” You roll your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. How did a professional relationship turn into late-night thoughts of him, lingering glances, and this undeniable thing you’ve finally acknowledged? 

You both stand up, and Pedri’s closes the distance between the two of you, pulling you against him by the waist. 

This is the moment you stop fighting it. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. 

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, watching you carefully like he’s waiting for you to take it all back, change your mind, and shove him away. But you don’t, and he speaks again. “I don’t care how complicated this is. I just want to be with you.”

His genuine words make you shiver because you feel the same way. You have done for a while now, but you were always too cautious to admit it. He gives you another chance to pull away, but once again, you don’t. He closes the distance completely, resting his forehead against yours. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you realise this isn’t just about desire - but instead everything you’ve been holding back. 

“You’re really bad at keeping things professional,” he teases playfully, his voice low as he looks into your eyes.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re the one who confessed first.” 

“Yeah, but you let me,” he points out, grinning.

You roll your eyes although you don’t argue. Because the truth is, you don’t regret letting him. Not at all. 

There’s so much to figure out, so many conversations to have, rules to work around and risks to consider. But right now? None of that matters.

Right now, all that matters is his soft lips against yours.

[dreamingkatie]

Savannah, 1902

This is an old one, but I've practically rewritten the whole thing. Medfet, sorta. Kinda.

The rain hasn’t let up in two days. Charles says the crossway at the bottom of the hill is flooded and last night a carriage was washed off the road. I love when he tells me stories. Sometimes I ask him to tell me the same ones, over and over. I don’t ask about the papers anymore. The last time I heard something about the election, something about McKinley… I asked Charles. And he taught me– his lessons are sharp--that politics do not not concern me.  

“Laura!” he calls up the stairs. “Mary’s starting the bath. The doctor is here.”

My stomach flutters but I scurry to the bathroom and plug the tub. Mary trudges in with bucket after bucket and I wait, watching her pour it in and leave for more. I wait for Charles, making steamy clouds on the window with my breath. I watch the rain and press my head against the cool glass. 

Charles hurries in. He hangs his morning coat on the back of the door, undresses me, and helps me into the steaming water. He kisses my face, wets and washes my long hair, scrubbing and combing through the tangles with his fingers. I sit placidly as he washes my face, my ears, shoulders, neck. He stands me up, washes in between my legs, then bends me over and washes my bottom.

“Do we have to do this?” I ask, as he pours water over my shoulders.

“Do you want to have a child?” he grumbles, wrapping me with a towel. 

“Yes, but–”

“Shh.” He taps his finger against my lips. “No more arguing.” I let him rub me with the towel and pull my nightgown over my head. 

“He’s in my study,” he says. “Let’s hurry.”

I creep down the stairs, my fingers grasping the thick banister. Charles’s hand wraps around the back of my neck, guiding me.

The house is quiet today. No big dinners planned, no lamps lit in the great room or the formal dining room. I look around for Mary but Charles pushes me onward. His study is gently lit, the desk lamp’s stained glass sparkling. We enter and I inhale the faint scent of tobacco, old books, oiled leather couches and chairs. The doctor rises from his chair and shakes Charles’s hand. I clasp mine in front of me and look at my toes. 

“So good to see you, Charles. How’s the girl?”

Charles’s fingers tighten around my neck and I shiver. Their feet, their black dress shoes, their tailored hems. I see my pale shins and inturned feet and feel ashamed.

“She’s good. She’s excited. Aren’t you, Laura?” 

“Yes,” I say, and I am. It’s been six months of marriage, and not a sign of pregnancy. We’ve tracked the calendar. I am ready.

“Have you taken her temperature today?” the doctor asks. 

“This morning. Today should be the ideal day, but we should check again. Let’s get it right.”

“Absolutely. Where do you want her? We can use the couch… or the desk?” Charles considers, looking at his oak desk.

“Maybe we could go up–”

“Laura, hush,” Charles says, and he rings for Mary. She covers the couch with sheets, bustling around with the linens, tucking their corners into the couch. I try to catch her eye, to see her crinkly smile and apple-round cheeks. She doesn’t look at me, but she squeezes my arm as she leaves the room.  

“On the couch, please, my love. Good.”

“Lie back, Laura,” the doctor says. “We’re going to make sure your temperature is just right.”

My legs shake and my eyes dart from Charles to the doctor. 

“Be a good girl. The doctor is here to help you and he’s seen it all before. Lift your legs. Knees to your chest. Hold them. Good.”

The air is cool on my bottom as the nightgown shifts. The doctor pulls on gloves and I swallow. The thermometer looks so much bigger than Charles’s. Gloved fingers pressing my thighs apart, Charles’s fingers in my hair, watching. The thermometer pushes into me and I jump. Charles kneels beside the couch and rubs my tummy. 

“Five minutes, now, Laura,” the doctor says and he twists the thermometer. “Charles, does she always get wet when you take her temperature?”

“She does,” he says. “It embarasses her.”

I groan and close my eyes.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” the doctor says, pushing it further in, out a bit, back in. His knuckles brush against my cunny and I open my eyes, looking at Charles. He just rubs my tummy and smiles.. 

“How are her nipples, Charles?” The doctor puts a finger inside my cunny. I gasp.

“Don’t–”

“It’s fine, Laura,” the doctor says. “I’m just making certain you’re ready. Charles?”

“Sensitive,” he says, showing the doctor. He rubs my breasts and I jerk. His fingers pluck at my nipples through the gown. 

“Ohh,” I twist away.

“She doesn’t like them touched, really,” he says. “But I’ve explained it’s important.” 

The doctor nods. “It’s important. They need to be ready for nursing. She’s too resistant.” 

I groan. 

“Laura,” the doctor says, “Be still. Charles, please show me how you’re working her nipples. I’d like to see how she manages it, if you don’t mind.”

Charles lifts up my gown.

“Nooooo,” I say.

“Shh.” Charles pulls it over my breasts. 

“Please!” 

“Shh,” he coos. “You’re fine. Close your eyes, Laura.”

My face is hot, and I feel exposed. Charles starts again, running his thumbs over my nipples.

“We normally start with light, gentle touches. We work up to more… vigor.”

He pinches them, stretches them. He snaps his fingers against my nipples. Pulls them. The doctor rubs the back of his hand along my cunny. I drip. I ache.

“How long?”

“Usually 30 minutes. More if I have time.”

“Mhm. And you’re using the pump on her?”

“We are,” Charles says. “Ten to twenty minutes, twice a day. Mary handles it when I’m at the office.”

“That’s sufficient for now,” the doctor says, “I imagine she doesn’t like that either.”

“No,” Charles says. “But it’s quite lovely, on her hands and knees.” His fingers keep tugging at me.

The doctor smiles. He pulls out the thermometer and examines it. “You were right, Charles. Perfect temperature. Perfect timing. She probably ovulated yesterday. And you haven’t fucked her in a few days, or come, correct?”

“Saved it up,” Charles says, kissing my cheek. He looks at the doctor. “You’re sure, then. Today?”

The doctor nods. “If it’s going to take, today is the day.”

Charles stands, leaving me uncovered, and unbuckles his pants. The doctor backs away, leaning against the desk. The air is cool on the wetness between my legs. I shiver, watching him. Charles’s cock hurts me. He groans as he pushes in, and I keep my legs wide and high. His beard scratches my face. My neck feels raw. Charles lifts my hips and fucks me harder. It’s too big. 

“Huuurts, Charles.”

“I know, love,” he says. “Just give it a minute.”

He moves slowly, but hard. I relax. I watch him – his face, his arms. The doctor watches. I’m being bred, I think, and something shifts inside me. I move against him. 

“Wait, Laura,” the doctor says, kneeling down beside me.  “He’s almost done.”

Charles comes, grunting. I feel his cock pulsing. 

“Tighten up around him, Laura,” the doctor says. 

I squeeze. I watch Charles’s face. 

“Charles, just stay as deep as you can, please,” the doctor says. He rubs his cock through his pants. 

Charles’s weight crushes me. My cunny is sore. Wetness drips and I focus on slow breathing. An eternity passes.

“Pull out slowly,” the doctor says. “Perfect. Use your fingers to push that back inside her.”

Charles’s fingers fill me again and I cry out.

“You’re doing so well, dear,” Charles says. He zips up his pants.

The doctor pulls my knees higher, his eyes between my legs.

“Ok, yes. Keep them high, Laura,” he says, looking at Charles. “She needs to have an orgasm. If you don’t mind, Charles--”

The doctor's fingers gently roll my nipples and Charles’s thumb finds my clit.

“Ohhhh,” I cry.

They work my body easily and I writhe on the towels.

“Once this is done,” the doctor explains, “I have to see another patient. She’ll need to lie on her back, at least an hour. Another orgasm can’t hurt. And the same tomorrow. Fuck her early. Then orgasm. Keep milking her, though, just keep her horizontal for the day.”

“I understand,” Charles says.

“Ah, she’s close now,” the doctor pinches my nipples. They smile at me, encouraging. 

I come all over Charles’s fingers, bucking and trembling. 

“Good,” the doctor says. “It’s perfect, really. Rest a bit, Laura.” 

They stand and step away and I feel dazed. Spent. 

“I’ll come back to check in a week to see how she looks. It may take a bit of time to be certain, but this should do it. We’ll keep a close eye on her and keep her healthy.”

They shake hands again and the doctor nods to me as he leaves. Charless sits at my feet, pushing the sheets aside, and pulls my feet onto his lap. He urges my legs open wide, knees splayed, rubbing me gently. 

I weakly try to push his hand away and he slaps my arm. “Stop, Laura. He knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t like him,” I say. “So intrusive.”

“He’s the best in the state, Laura. We’ll do what he says.”

[phalangemedes]

I kept this in my drafts cause I was gunna expand on it, but I dunno if I need to. Either way, I thought it was interesting that the refugee trio from Canaan are all just different aspects of Grief represented through the kaleidoscope of their personhood. Because mourning is a spectrum, no more or less vivid for the death being metaphorical or literal, and there’s been some weird hot takes that more or less emotive grieving is ‘strange’ or whatever, so, onward!

Judith is unable to feel her own emotions (or at least with any depth) because she's made herself an emotional void, due to training (Cohort AND Second expectations), repression and losing Marta. She was already constipated and that tipped her over to cutting her own throat so she’d emotionally starve.

The last emotive thing she had was oh captain my captain levels of obsession for the woman that rejected her romantically, DUTY, and with equal verve the self loathing for wanting that.

(Also she was being medically maltreated by BoE and then used as a Duracell so y'know, you can not like the woman for being an unsympathetic hypocrite but also, rough ol' time for Jodypops)

Corona has used the flamboyance of her emotions as a manipulation tactic since she was like.. 5 and oops it suddenly stopped working! The tits, the smiles and the twinkly eyes have no effect in camo land, if anything, they are tired of her shit and only “warm up” to her when she starts submitting to them in ways they understand (Re: BoE are a hierarchy and she is Not the top rung). She's also grieving Ianthe not wanting her (worse, choosing BABS) and failing to throw her Pretty Girl weight around as much as she used to, whilst cosplaying a Cav to feel worth something (habitual, comforting).

On top of that, she’s bouncing from pillar to post in an attempt to be desired because her worth is locked up in other’s perception of her. (She fails so hard to connect with anyone she starts chatting up G2deon's corpse like.. It's SAD even if she's Tridentarii heinous (affectionate insult))

And Camilla is forcing herself not to feel because she doesn't have time for a breakdown. She's tick listing how to “make things right” through torture (shock bracelet) being used as a means of coercion for Judith (also torture) having what was left of Pal taken away from her (I mean this literally and figuratively, because his skull, then hand, are hope AND HIM) ((likewise the BETRAYAL from a necro and a cav about it)) and being denied doing GOOD (denial of treatment of Judith). I think honestly she reacts the most MUNDANELY, by just... powering through, keeping busy, not thinking about it because then it'll be real.

And she doesn't let herself break until Paul, because she’s still trying to fix everything until the very moment it’s un-fixable. (And in some ways Palamedes takes the burden of it for her, by giving her the choice, the "it's okay, now, you can feel". All that time, bottling the HURT because she has to be useful because if she's not useful what's left? It's the vice of grief as you excuse yourself from the young woman you're caring for, it's locking the bathroom door, sitting in the bath and your body betraying you with the mother and fucker of a panic attacks. It's getting punched in the solar plexus because you turned around to make a comment and not only is that person gone, but they aren’t coming back.

None of them are any more or less tragic, but they are all acceptable and staggeringly normal forms of grieving.

[tulipfantasies]

night on the town ✩ n.romanoff

pairing; natasha romanoff x fem!reader

summary; a simple night on the town leads to the discoveration of pain and addiction.

characters; (mentions) og 6 and a woman named maria (not hill).

warnings; 16+ (just to be safe), use of alcohol and cigarettes, (mentions) underage smoking, (mentions) addiction, (mentions) natasha's past at the red room, (mild) swearing, (mild) jealous r, nat is ooc again, (minor) angst and fluff. 

my notes;  please, if any of the topics in bold make you uncomfortable or trigger you, do not read onwards. i don't want to upset anyone so consider it your warning. i don't think i like this one. can anyone spot the small pop culture reference??

word count; 2.6k ao3

A ‘simple night on the town’ turns into 1:04 am. 

The entire length of the streets of New York was bathed in a soft amber glow, all thanks to the street lights that were situated on every corner of the Avenues. 

Midtown, or at least the side you all find yourselves on, was eerily calm given the environment (and the atmosphere hidden on the inside) that was nestled amongst the usually busy streets.

No car horns were heard for miles on end.

For the middle of spring, the air was bitterly cold yet so freeing. In stark contrast to the air behind the secured doors, which was heavy and suffocating.

Tony, among one of his genius plans, had decided that you all deserved to take a break from your demanding and life-saving lives.

He described it as a ‘simple night out on the town’, but we all know that in Tony’s dictionary, that was an excuse for him to get shit-faced. 

So, naturally, you all tagged along to keep him out of trouble and to have a little fun yourselves.

Who could pass up a free drink and the chance to unwind anyway?

Now, none of the team members that tagged along were anywhere in sight except for those who were strictly keeping sober or physically couldn’t get drunk.

The sensible ones.

The only remaining ones were around the table in the VIP booth that Tony rented in the club.

2:45 am.

It’s been 1 hour and 41 minutes since you last saw her dancing with some brunette, who has definitely drunk more than the legal requirement.

Desperate.

1 hour and 41 minutes of scanning through the hot and heavy crowd in search of a single sign that she was still dancing with the brunette or getting another drink at the bar.

None. 

“Y/n? Where are you going?” Steve’s voice calls out over the booming music as he watches you snatch your phone from off the table impatiently.

“Need fresh air.” You reply hastily before throwing a small smile over your shoulder and in his direction.

“She’s going to find Nat,” Clint’s voice could just about be heard over the music as he was talking to Steve and you were walking further away. “Like always.”

The music was practically deafening to the ears; the last thing on a drunken mind was the volume of the music.

Sex and more alcohol always are. 

You were just silently thanking yourself that you had entered the club with a lot more self-control and had only ended up getting tipsy this time around.

Unlike Tony who was completely shit-faced.

Pushing through the thick sea of plastered couples (who were dancing in a way that was even too much for you) was a task in itself but you finally managed to reach the front doors to the club.

Soft, yet bright, light was emitted in your direction causing you to wince. 

You let out a large sigh of relief the further away you stumble from the raging nightclub, random shot glass in hand, and into the bitter air that pierced the exposed skin on your arms and legs.

A small shiver runs down your spine.

“Fancy seeing you here,” A sultry voice brings your, slightly blurred, attention away from the empty shot glass in your hand and toward the direction where it came from.

The dimly lit alleyway. “Got tired of being in there?”

“Nat!” You exclaim in relief as you slowly make your way over toward the alleyway. “There you are, I’ve been looking for you for like the past hour.”

The closer you reach her, the more of her outline you can make out.

She’s leaning up against the masonry while nursing a half-empty bottle of tequila (or vodka, it was too dark to make it out) in one hand and a lit cigarette in between her index finger and middle finger on her other.

A dangerous combo for a dangerous woman.

“I’ve been out here the entire time, detka.”

“Oh? With that brunette who was all over you like some desperate-”

“Careful now,” She cuts your words off with a smug grin and a tsk sound. “You had a lot to drink, detka?”

“Uh, yeah, a few but I’m not drunk like Tony.” You reply as you make a move to lean up against the wall opposite to her.

No other words were spoken as she raised the cigarette to her lips to take a long drag. 

Drag after drag, she slowly puffs the lethal smoke out towards the right of her while she makes sure that not once does she take her emerald gaze from off of you.

It was an intense gaze.

“But that’s beside my point, who the hell was that brunette dancing with you?” You ask abruptly with a raised brow. She chuckles in amusement at your clear jealousy. “Because she was getting way too cosy with you.”

“No one important, just someone who drunkenly came up and started dancing with me,” Natasha replies as if it never bothered her because it didn’t bother her. “Think she said her name was Maria or something.” 

Maria. “Hm, you seemed to get pretty handsy with her, do you like her?”

“Where’s all this jealousy coming from, Y/n/n?” She asks in an amused tone which is followed by a chuckle. Oh, she was enjoying this. “To be fair, it’s amusing seeing you go all green over some random girl, especially one I don’t know or have an interest in.”

“Y’know, I’d rather not discuss it.” You say, brushing off her question and ignoring her comment as you turn to face away from her so she can’t see you roll your eyes.

There’s a pregnant pause before you clear your throat and look back toward her with a slightly softened gaze.

The cigarette remains firmly pressed in between her fingers.

“Have you always smoked?” You ask, to change the subject, as you fold your arms over your chest.

Natasha doesn't reply straight away but takes another drag.

She drops the remaining bit of her cigarette onto the ground so that she can stamp harshly on it, with the sole of her shoe, just to make sure that it’s out.

“Mhm,” she hums with a shrug of her shoulders. “Just kept it to myself, I guess.”

Taking your bottom lip in between your upper front teeth, you nervously chew on it as she leans forward to slip the shot glass from out of your hand and into hers.

Without any sounds, she lets the clear liquid trickle out of the bottle and into the shot glass before gently handing it back to you.

You bring the rim of the shot glass to your lips before knocking it back in one go. Straight tequila. 

“Oh, god, that’s tequila.” You state in a strained voice and with a noticeable grimace as the liquid burns the back of your throat.

Natasha chuckles at the sight of your grimace before smiling softly as you clear your throat. “You okay there, detka?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You reply before sighing and reaching up to give your temple a quick but firm rub. “You know smoking is bad for your lungs, right? And besides, what are you out here drinking tequila straight for?”

With her fingers curled around the neck of the tequila bottle, she brings the rim of the bottle up to her lips intending to tip it back to take another swig.

But she doesn’t. 

“You only get one chance in life, detka,” she replies nonchalantly, ignoring your second question, before finally taking a swig of the alcohol. “I’ve learnt that the hard way.”

Given what she was forced to witness and trained into doing while growing up, it made some sense for her to be wishing away her life like this.

That amount of trauma is often immovable and can only be numbed by the effects of drugs and alcohol.

The Red Room raised those girls into being their bloodthirsty puppets, the ones who were forced to believe that they had no place in the world and yet here Natasha is, with her foot in the world, throwing it all away just to numb her feelings.

You never really know what you’ve got until it's too late.

The thought of going through what she had growing up made your skin crawl.

“How long have you been smoking for?” You ask cautiously as you stare at the redhead who lets out a long sigh.

From that sigh alone, you can tell it wasn’t a habit that she had recently picked up. 

“Listen, I didn’t come out to get interrogated about my unhealthy habits, so just drop it, alright?” She defends herself before she extends the neck of the bottle back over to you.

You decline with a shake of your head.

One shot of tequila is enough. You can’t stomach anymore tonight.

“How long have you been smoking, Nat?”

She lets out a defeated sigh. “Not sure. Since I was, like, 14 or 15.”

You would say that you’re surprised to hear that she’s been smoking so young but by the looks of it, smoking has become an unhealthy coping mechanism for the shit life she’s got.

You just wish it wasn’t her that was suffering like this.

“A cigarette is the least of my worries.” She replies with a shrug before closing her eyes to relive the memory.

“They drugged me with all kinds of things in the Red Room so I added to it by stealing a cigarette from a packet in a guard’s pocket. I can still remember getting in trouble now.”

Silence comes from her end as her gaze flickers down to the squashed cigarette on the floor before glancing back up at you, who peacefully analyses her.

She can’t stop.

“And it’s turned into a habit that you now can’t break.”

“Yeah, I guess you could put it that way.” 

“Does smoking and drinking like this at least make you feel better?” You ask curiously but cautiously.

When it comes to Natasha, you have to choose your words carefully.

Natasha doesn’t let her guard down around anyone yet here she was, in a dingy alleyway, letting you see the regret and pain shining in her eyes.

No, it doesn’t.

Your heart aches for her; all the cigarettes and alcohol that she’s taken over the years (outside and inside of you knowing her) haven’t numbed the pain in the way she hoped it would.

It just put her at ease for a certain amount of time.

“Oh, Tasha.” 

She doesn’t say anything else but instead, her gaze flickers away from your eyes (which she always finds herself lost in) and down to your soft-shaped lips.

So kissable. 

She could practically taste the bitterness and sweetness of the alcohol on the tip of her tongue.

At that moment, she knew that she wanted, no, needed to kiss you more than ever. 

Without any hesitation, she takes a step toward you so she can place her hands on your hips (despite still holding onto the bottle) so she can gently tug your back away from the masonry.

Her blurry gaze rests on your lips, memorising the shape and softness of them before she dips her head down slightly.

Her lips were inches away from yours. 

“Nat-”

“-Shut up and let me kiss you.” She growled before pulling you in closer so that her hot breath was fanning against your lips. 

The moment her lips crash against yours, your hands instinctively reach up to comb through her soft red locks.

She tastes like 5 different alcohols and nicotine all in one go; normally you’re not into that but, right now, you crave her. 

You didn’t want her to break the kiss any time soon but she did and instead of moving away from you, she rested her forehead against hers.

The both of you were panting softly.

“Are you addicted to them?” You whisper as your hands drop from her hair and down to cup her rosy cheeks. “The way they make you feel numb or how they make you act?”

Her forehead drops against yours as her head hangs low and the warmth her body was radiating disappears as she takes a step back from you.

A small nod confirms everything you need to know.

She’s addicted.

She stares at you as she extends her arm out so that she can carelessly throw the empty bottle of tequila as far away from her as possible.

Your grip on your shot glass loosens so the shattering noise rippling through the alleyway increases just like the pile of glass shards.

“I–I don’t know how to stop.” 

The alcohol in her system has weakened the walls she put up for her protection to the point where they were trembling.

“You’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”

You take a short step toward her to go back to gently cupping her cheeks in your soft hands.

She leans into your touch as a thick singular tear rolls down her cheek. 

Here she was, standing in front of you, looking vulnerable and broken. And boy, did the people of her past break her.

“I want to stop. I do but I can’t.” She admits in a soft tone as if she is worried about other people hearing her. “I’ve tried so many times.”

The glass shards crunch under your footing as you drop your touch on her cheeks to wrap your arms around her torso.

She instantly wraps her arms around you in return. 

“I promise you, I am going to help you out of this.” You whisper your promise as she buries her head into the crook of your neck.

You’re wearing the perfume that drives her crazy.

It felt as if your promise was empty but the determination flooding through your system tells you that you will not let it be empty.

You are going to help her through this, like it or not.

“Let’s go get some water so we can sober up, yeah?” You whisper as she pulls away to give you a nod of agreement. “You’re stuck with me, now, Nat.”

“There’s no one I would rather be stuck with, detka.” She whispers back as she slips her hand in between yours to squeeze it before following as you both sluggishly walk out of the alleyway.

The alleyway that you stood in, kissed in and where she bit the bullet and admitted defeat. 

The streets remain silent as the two of you stumble down them, hand in hand.

The bitter air no longer bothered you or the exposed skin that you were showing, not when you were wrapped underneath Natasha’s arm. 

“Thank you,” She says, after silence, as you two stumble onto the corner of the street to call a taxi. Thankfully there was one in the distance. “For not judging me and sticking by me. Even in my darkest times.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Natasha.” You reply as a taxi pulls up in front of you. You both climb in and mutter your destination to the driver before you turn back to look at her. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, because I’d do anything for the people that I love. And it’s safe to say that I’m in love with you.”

She smiles softly at your, slightly drunken, confession before bringing your hand up to her lips so she can press a soft kiss on the inside of your wrist and then against your palm. 

“I love you too, detka,” she whispers as she moves her head to catch your lips in for a sweet but short-lived kiss. “More than anything in this world. I love you.”

[first-edition]

Fox and the Hound

Chapter 8

Previous chapter here

Sum-Joffrey wants to send a message to your family after your brother embarrasses him, so he marries you off to his most unwanted man in his court, the hound. But will this marriage truly be a statement for an eyesore, or will it grow into something more. 

Cw for this chapter- mention of smut, mention of 18+ themes. Cussing, bathing together, mention of war, description of scarring, child abuse, sandors past, Joffrey being a little bitch, merryn trant.

Sandor stands next to joffrey in between him and cersi as a messenger has arrived. 

“Your g-grace.” the man said out of breath hurrying into the great hall as he ran most of the way. 

“Speak man!” jeoffry barks already annoyed. 

“HIs late grace, the king's brother stannis barathion is planning to invade king's landing…and t-take the throne for himself as it is his birthright.” he says panting but talking as fast he can for the annoyed new child king. 

“Where did you hear this?” cersi speaks. The man approaches cautiously, side -eyed sandor afraid of him. He hands her a piece of paper while bowing. She takes it from his hands. He backs up from the royals and waits as she reads the letter. 

“Fuck..” she says under her breath. 

“Mother?” Joffrey asks, looking up at her as she now stands. 

“Ser merryn gathers as many men as you can to begin fortifying the walls. Tell the iron mages and blacksmiths to begin preparation for incoming weapons.” she says handing the letter to her handmaiden before ser merryn bows and begins to walk off. 

“Go with him dog.” jeoffry speaks  looking up at the hound as he grumbles and then follows ser merryn reluctantly. He'd much rather have his dick buried inside of you right now back in your shared chambers. Your soft body on his as your whimpers and moans echo off the stone walls of the room as you whine out his name telling him how good he feels, but no.

Hes following merryn fucking trant out to the kings gaurd and outside the castle walls to inform all of the soon to be burning kingdom. 

“Don't be so silent now clegane. I know you're just jumping under that hard exterior.'' Merryn says. 

“Shut the fuck up. Do you want me to beat you into the mud again? " Sandor speaks immediately, shutting the other knight up. Passing through the halls you and Sansa walk down a guard and two other ladies are waiting following behind you both. Your arms are linked and you both laugh.

You wear a light gray dress, with an off the shoulder bodice that's lined with fur, the golden and jeweled accents scattering the bodice no doubt a choice from the queen. Your skirt is held in place yet is flowy. Sansa wears something similar but in a light blue. 

Sansa gives your arm a light squeeze signaling for you to look ahead and you are seeing sandor with ser merryn. You both meet at the hall as ser merryn and sandor both stop giving a quick bow before speaking. 

“Princess, my lady.” ser merryn says. 

“Where are you both off too you're never assigned together?” you speak. 

“None of your concern my lady.” Merryn speaks you raise your eyebrows at his sudden rudeness

“Well..then I hope my beloved husband will enlighten me?”you say turning your head to sandor fixing your eyes on his. 

“No. he will not.” Sandor speaks coldly before looking up at the other guard behind you both. 

“You. Go with trant to the amory.” he gruffly speaks. The knight nod and bows to you before ser merryn and him walk onward to the journey they were set on. 

“Sandor?” you ask. 

“Stannis Baratheon is going to invade kings landing and take the throne in 3 days.” he speaks once ser merryn is gone from ear shot. 

“What?” Sansa speaks. Before letting go of you. 

“Excuse me.” she hurries off her maid following her and you and sandor and your hand maiden are left in the halls.

“Are you certain?” you ask. 

“Yes. one of varys messengers sent the note.” he says 

“I'll arrange for you and I to take a ship to Volantis then.” you say. 

“Don't bother, I won't be on it with you.” he says, looking down at you. 

“W-what? Why not?” you ask, stepping closer to him. 

“I'm staying here, I have to fight on the king's orders,” he says. You scoff a sarcastic smile forming on your face. 

“And since when have you carried what the boy king has to order?” you roll your eyes and cross your arms at his stupid notion. 

“Since he married you to me.” he speaks plainly now, finding his notion no longer stupid as you drop your arms to your sides. You slightly bite your lip, a sheen of blush flowing to your cheeks as your eyes revert down quickly before looking back up at him. 

“O-oh..” you stutter out. 

“I'll have more guards posted outside your doors.” he says before moving around you and heading off down the hall to assign guards to be posted. You stand there watching as he walks away before he disappears past the corner. 

“If it's not too much to mention my lady, but, I think the lord clegane may love you.” your maiden says. A small smile forms on your lips. 

“I think you're right.” you say smiling at her before you both turn to continue your walk down the hall. 

—---

You didn't see Sandor for the rest of the day after he informed you. He was outside the wall and in the knightstand training area. Watched out to the court yard as more troops of knights marched in but sandor was nowhere to be seen. You missed him. 

You missed him until the night fell and you were in your room. He wasn't lying about having more guards posted outside the room, instead of the usual two three were now eight. Two on either side of the door and two across from your door posted on either side. Your handmaids scurried past them as they entered and exited.

“Will you draw a bath please?” you ask one of them. She nodded and left along with another to collect the contents for bathing. You sighed and undid the lacing of the back of the dress you wear. The stretch of reaching behind you a much needed one as the ache of your muscles from your night with sandor last was still lingering. 

The doors open once again making you turn your head in confusion as to why your hand maidens were back so fast. But you were met happily with the sight of your husband. He sets down his sword on the side of the door against the wall. He groans annoyingly as he does. 

“I haven't seen you all day. Are you alright?” you ask, walking up. You meet him and place your hands on  his cheeks; he slightly leans into your soft touch. Your palm resting on the scarred part of his face. 

“Bunch of cunts.” he grumbles. 

“I have the maids drawing a bath ... .would you ... .would you like to join me?” you ask. Sandor goes quiet bringing his hand up to yours keeping it placed on your cheek. 

“Okay.” he simply says. Your heart jumps at his answer. 

“I'll need something from you first.” you say. 

“Mm.” he answers. 

“Can you unlace my dress?” you ask. He lets out a soft chuckle and nods. You take your hand from his face only to catch his hand in yours and lead him to the bed. 

“When you ask me to unlace your dress, little fox…” he trails off as you sit him on the bed. 

“I mean unlace my dress.” you say turning around standing in the space between his legs. You move your hair to the side as he had come up feeling the fabric on your waist making you shiver before he truly moves to the back of your dress and begins to unlace the dress.

You feel it becoming looser and looser with each segment of lacing until it's loose enough to slip off your body. You step out of it as you bend down, picking it up and laying it on the space next to him on the bed. Left in your underclothes sandors hands find your waist again, turning you around to face him. 

He pulls you closer to him leaning his head up but not too much as even as sitting he's still comfortably level with you. His lips catch yours in a kiss feeling the softness he was deprived of all day. You moan into his mouth as his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips and your arms around his neck. The kiss is only broken when the doors open once again your hand maids arrive with bathing materials and begin to fill the tub in the corner but not before apologizing for intruding on the two of you. 

You admire the features of your husband, his scruff already growing back from shaving it thank goodness on your behalf. You sit on his lap, the hot water warming you both. His arms rest on either side of the bathtub as his eyes search you. No matter how many times he will view your body nothing will ever compare to its beauty. The moment calms him but the focus is to keep the blood rushing to his cock while your breasts are virtually centered in front of his face. His knuckle tightens the side of the tub as he closes his eyes. 

“S-sorry.” you speak, causing his eyes to open again and his grip to cease. He looks up at you in confusion. Your hands are now resting on his collar bones. 

“It's not that..” he says realizing you pulled away thinking he closed his eyes due to you touching his scars. He takes your hand bringing it back to his face somehow finding a sort of comfort in you tracing his marks. 

“Does it still hurt?” You ask him as you move his hair out of his face, your fingers brushing against his scar. 

“No.” He says 

“Good…what happened?” You ask

“I’m sure some servant has told you the gruesome story.” He says slowly.

“Yes…but..I’m asking you. What happend?” You ask again.

“Like you’ve heard little fox, I was pressed into the fire like a nice juicy mutton chop by my brother.” He says gesturing to his scar. 

“Why.” You ask. 

“Though I stole one of his toys, I didn't steal it, I was just borrowing it…playing with it. I was 6 or so.” He says you tilt your head slightly brushing your thumb over his cheek. 

“The pain was bad, the smell was worse…but…” he sighs before continuing. 

“The worst thing was that it was my brother who did it. My older brother. My father who protected him..told everyone my bedding caught fire. And my mother…wouldn’t even look at me said i was too ugly to love.” He says eyes averting from yours. It's quiet, the only noise is the crackling of the fire and the light swishing of the water. 

“I can look at you...” You say moving closer to him. His eyes make contact with yours like before. 

“...And I love you, Sandor.” You say he lets out a relieved sort of sigh before pulling you to him placing a much need kiss on your forehead.

chapter 9 here

Tag list- @stephyshadows @germansarechill

[ayanominitrash]

Act Cool, Senpai! (Geto Suguru x reader)

₊˚ ♡

Geto-san falls for his dearest kouhai. Is this the end?

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Sixth Entry. 5th Entry here. Masterlist. AO3

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The days seem to melt together. The dark clouds looming above certainly didn't help.

But you're glad you're on your way back to Jujutsu High's Tokyo Branch. It's been an awful 2 weeks for you, and you can't wait to curl up in your bed in the dorms. Before that though, you have to power through the commute to get there. Your shoulders slump, weighed down by the longing for your bed.

This toddler was a few rows before you, watching you stare out the window. When the feeling of being watched is too much to bear, you turn your head and offer them a small smile.

The kid started crying.

Good grief, you thought.

It was as if the universe was mocking you today. It's like the cosmos is conspiring to make you feel worse than you already are. First, you upset a child, then had to deal with the unpleasant B.O. from your seatmate, and now a drizzle is adding to your gloom.

With a sigh, you lean your head against the window, ignoring how it vibrates from the train's movement.

After the train and a cab ride later, you're entering Jujutsu High's Tokyo Branch, careful not to slip from the wet pavement. With each step, you avoid the deep puddles, though your effort is in vain since you're soaked all the way through, not having brought an umbrella. You ignore the way your damp clothes cling to you in an icky way, trudging onwards with determination to get to the dorms.

And just as the cosmos may have wished it, your day just got a lot worse.

"What on earth are you doing?"

You freeze, then turn your head to be bombarded with an atrocious bundle of white hair and sunglasses, all under a transparent umbrella.

After giving him a curt bow, you continue walking deeper into the campus.

"Where'd ya been? Haven't seen you around here lately."

"It's nice to see you too, Gojo-san." You hear the soles of his shoes hit the ground as he continues to walk behind you.

"Mhmm. Well, I am easy on the eyes, yeah. I don't know if I can say the same for you."

You pick up your pace, hoping for the conversation to end. The only thing you want right now is your bed, and now, a warm bath. You hope not to run into anyone and witness your predicament as a result of the weather. Your attempts were futile when your senpai quickly caught up to you with a few long strides, offering a share of the umbrella over your head.

You look up at the clear umbrella, then flit your eyes at his, "There's no point in that now, is it?"

Gojo-san only shrugs but keeps the part of the umbrella over your head anyway. "Where have ya been? Here I thought you've been eaten by a curse, or took my advice or something."

You lift your nose high up in the air, walking faster, "I've been doing the opposite, but it's none of your business, senpai."

"You're mad? Why are you mad at me? I was actually looking out for you, you know? How ungrateful."

Coming to an abrupt stop, you show him a scowl that'll ache 'till tomorrow, "No, I'm not at all, Gojo-san. What makes you say that?"

"That's an ugly stare you're sporting, kid. You say that but your looks say otherwise."

With a sigh, you pull something out from your shoulder bag, ignoring the rain droplets pouring in when you open it, "I even got this for you, because I know how much you like sweets."

To his surprise, Gojo-san couldn't help but lower the umbrella despite the rain. With his free hand, he accepted the pack of candies you offered. "You sure this for me? You might have confused me for another Senpai."

Your face immediately went red at the implication and embarrassment.

Was I that obvious?

"Oh, yeah? You might be right, should I take it back from you?" You grab hold of one end of the candy pack and pull once, but Gojo yanks it free from your grip immediately. He tucks them under his arm while putting the umbrella back up over both your heads.

"No, no, I think you're all right after all. Besides, don't you think your other senpai might be offended that you'll give him second-hand candies?"

You put air in your left cheek and gave him a sideways glance before walking again.

"What's with the change of heart?"

Another sigh, "Respectfully, senpai, I just want to go back to my room now."

There was a moment of silence between the two of you, making you think that he finally took the hint to leave you alone. But then he said something that made you think that a nerve popped in your brain.

"Wait, did you give me these as a love confession? Were you crushing on me this whole time?"

Dropping all your manners, you decided that you don't care if you're a disrespectful kouhai, "For the love of - there's no way! If you're so confused to receive those from me, then I'll just take it back!"

"Ah - then if it's not that reason, then maybe you're just being nice because I'm your Geto-san's friend, right?" Gojo-san raises the candy pack above his head, making it impossible for you to reach it given how great your height difference was. Also, curse his long damn arms!

"Why are you being so difficult?!"

"I don't know, why are you?"

"I don't even know how Geto-san puts up with you!"

"I don't even know why he puts up with you!"

You stop flailing your arms to glare at him, "What does that mean?"

He shrugs and pulls the umbrella closer to himself, seeming like he's no longer interested in sharing it with you. "Nothing. I just don't get why he's in such a mood lately. It seems like it's got something to do with you though."

You're sure that he doesn't miss the way your cheeks instantly heat up in the way he derisively licks his lips.

"So it's true, something is going on between the two of you! Haibara told me - "

"Why are you the way that you are?!"

You yelled at him and covered your red face as you began sprinting away from him, hoping that your strange senpai wouldn't follow you anymore.

And finally, the cosmos listened to you, because Gojo-san's obnoxious laugh grows smaller as you take your distance from him.

But then, quickly, the universe fooled you as you ran into the last person who you wanted to see you this way; completely drenched in rainwater, and red in the face with your wet hair sticking all over your visage.

"G-Geto-san!"

₊˚ ♡

Geto's heart was beating crazing fast, to the point he swore it could power a whole race car.

How long has it been again, since he last saw your face? Those eyes, and that cute blush you always wear whenever you're around him.

Geto-san's happy to see you, no matter how much of a mess you look right now. And he's sure he looks just as much of a mess too, with his hair down to his shoulders and his creased sweater.

"G-Geto-san!" You yelp, almost slipping on the pavement as you skid to a stop in front of him, now in the shelter of the entrance of the dorms.

Your senpai instinctively reached out, his strong hands wrapping around your arms to steady you. As you regained your balance, you thanked him and gently pulled away.

You can feel his warmth burn through your sleeves where he held you.

Geto-san stares at you for a moment, almost looking as if he saw a ghost before finally uttering your name, "Why are you running in the rain like that?"

You bent at your waist with a quick bow, "I-I just got home from my trip from K-Kyoto. Silly me didn't bring an umbrella. Haha."

"What were you thinking? You need to shower before you catch a cold."

Before he knew it, it was like his hands were on auto-pilot again. They gingerly help themselves on your shoulders as he ushers you deeper into the dorms. You stiffen in his grasp.

"Ah yeah, I'll go do that!" Flustered, you duck out from his grasp and face him with a nervous smile. "Y-yeah, I-I'll go do that, thank you, G-Geto-san."

Geto-san fights the urge to hold you again, longing for your touch since he's been so deprived of it for a long time. He hides his hands behind his back.

"R-right. Forgive me, if I was a bit pushy there."

"Not at all! T-thank you for y-your concern!"

The both of you stare at each other for a while.

He scratches his cheek, "I've tried calling once - "

"- I have to go!"

"Oh? Of course."

Another beat of silence. This time, your senpai watches you with a subtle pained expression as you begin twiddling your thumbs together.

"Right, I guess. . .I should go now?" He finally says.

"Right - wait, I'll a-also go. Now. Okay, bye senpai!". With that, he watches your retreating figure in confusion.

Did he read it all wrong? Was there something that he did?

Geto stands there for a moment, his thoughts plaguing him, making him want to drown in them.

He thought there was something between you two, ever since the exchange back in the Yokohama arena. Have you changed your mind?

Suddenly, he feels a hand on his right shoulder.

"Are you in a better mood now that you've seen her?"

Geto shrugs Satoru's hand off, "Not right now, Satoru."

"Oh, lover's quarrel then! Have some candy to make you feel better."

He flits his eyes to the bag, "Not right now. And where did you even get that?"

Satoru said the candies were a gift from you.

Suddenly, a thought came across Suguru's mind, one that completely shattered his heart.

That must be it. It kind of makes sense, the tension between you and his classmate.

He hangs his head low, exiting the dorms, paying no mind to Satoru's rambling.

The universe must be really conspiring against him today.

₊˚ ♡ - - - - Meanwhile . . .

Shoko smiles from reading something off her phone, "Guess who's finally back. Would you juniors want to throw a welcoming party later?" Haibara clasps his hands together, "Sorry, Ieiri-san! I have to study for the upcoming theoretical exams!" "I don't want to go," Nanami simply says, not even looking at them as he erases the writing off the chalkboard. "You guys have no sense of spirit."

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(❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡ reblogs and comments are appreciated//do not repost my work anywhere // I think at this point, this isn't a mini-series anymore. please forgive my slow updates </3 I think I'll squeeze out 1 or 2 more chapters for this and move on to higuruma, naoya, (higurumaxnaoya??) and shoko or shokoyuki?. might post a one-shot soon to see how it goes also jjk manga's ending </3 ***Taglist (i sure fkin hope it works): @dookiemeshibear @pochapo @xiaolangg @strflp @str4wberryspots @yu6mi @swinginmakerclodsuitcase @spaalightts @shadowstar123 @kaeyaviado

[pearlesscentt]

open road promises

── based on love in the little things, but can be read on its own.

seungcheol x reader, established relationship, fluff, 578 words

the day had been a whirlwind — of emotions, of activities and homecooked meals, of inquisitive questioning. though you had met seungcheol's parents and brother before, today was your first time meeting his extended family. the moment you entered their living room, you felt like the epicenter of an adoring hurricane. right after greeting his mom with a hug, two of his aunts were already pulling you to the side with excitement. it wasn't long before laughter filled the air, as each cousin eagerly shared with you some anecdotes from when they were growing up with your boyfriend. the whole time they were exchanging stories, they were also showering you with attention; they asked about your life, your family, your dreams, and of course, your plans with seungcheol.

amidst the chaos of questions and well-meaning advice, you stole knowing glances at your boyfriend, your eyes speaking of shared amusement and exhaustion. his family's love for him was undeniable and it translated into an overwhelming desire to ensure his happiness with you.

"so," one of his aunts chimed in, "when do we get to see the wedding?"

you could feel your face heat up at the sudden question, quickly hiding it with a chuckle. "don't worry, we'll let everyone know when we're ready." you said.

another aunt of his leaned closer to you and whispered, "don't wait too long, dear." there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. "our seungcheol can be quite impatient."

despite the feeling of being examined under the microscope and the inevitable awkwardness—that seungcheol was always quick to rescue you from—you couldn't help but appreciate their love for each other. they're a big family, but from the teasing to the laughter, warmth radiated from everyone in the room. a true attestation of the genuine care and endearment they have for one another, and now by extension, to you.

by the time you left, drained yet touched by the whole experience, the car ride home felt like a quiet oasis. it was only the hum of the car's engine blended with the soft tune of whatever's playing on the radio that filled the air; a soothing backdrop to the exhaustion both of you felt. when you looked out the window, the world was bathed in the gentle glow of twilight, a stark contrast to the affection onslaught that ensued earlier.

you felt seungcheol reach out to hold your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. he turned his head slightly to glance at you, his eyes still fixed on the road, that familiar spark of affection shimmered within them. you already knew there was something he wanted to say.

"what is it?" you asked.

"i'm really gonna marry you someday, you know?" he said, his voice was soft like a lullaby but it was firm as if he had already made up his mind.

your heartbeat sped up, the weight of his words settling into your soul. sure, you had talked about marriage on countless occasions, but that doesn't mean the mere mention of it makes you any less giddy. despite your fatigue, a smile tugged at your lips, "is that a threat?" you teased.

his own smile, the one that could melt all of your worries away, graced his face. in that moment, the weariness of the day dissolved into the shared warmth of your dreams and your future, driving onward together into the quiet, comforting embrace of the night.

"it's a promise," he said.

svt masterlist | navigation ── reblogs and feedbacks are highly appreciated !

© 2023 PEARLESSCENTT. please do not steal my works.

[daydream-cement]

omg are your requests indeed open??? if so, can i request a wing kink lucifer x fem!reader fic :) i am aware it's been done a couple of times now but. i am garbage and i want more ahahah the details are up to you, i just wanna see submissive lucifer *returns to my the garbage can*

Bathing Together (NSFW)

Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

Author's Note: I love me some of The Wing Thing™. Thank you to THE Lucifer writer (@alexusonfire) for beta-ing this fic. ilysm.

Every move you made had the deliberate purpose of driving the Morningstar insane. 

You sat positioned behind them in a grand bathtub. They were seated between your legs submerged to the sternum in the steaming water, their head thrown back in ecstasy as you ran a damp sponge across the ridges of their wings. You could tell they were still holding back as Lucifer only offered you affirming hums, their eyes remaining shut and mouth closed. 

It had been your idea to bathe together. You had discovered their secret love of having their wings stroked and caressed, and since then, you were desperate to find the lengths you could go in bringing them pleasure. 

Their shoulders shook as little jolts of electricity traveled through their body. With a determined gaze, you dip the sponge back in the water once more before lifting it back to their wings. When the heated sponge returned to the ridge of their wing, the Morningstar released a gasp, their whole body tensing and then vibrating in response.  

Taking a risk, you venture downwards, taking the warm sponge across the membrane of their wing. You were ever so gentle in your actions, treating the wing anatomy with utmost care as it gave way lightly under the pressure of your cleaning. 

After a few swipes of the sponge, you dip it back in the water and raise it to their wings to repeat the same steps as before. The Morningstar instinctually reclined back against you causing you to lean back against the stonewall of the bathtub. The pleasure they drew from your gentle caressing of this portion of their wings was more relaxing, the kind of sensation that could lull them to sleep. 

You allow them to enjoy the relaxation for a few minutes, switching to their other wing when the first felt sufficiently cared for. You weren’t looking for them to sleep, however. You wanted them to be shaking and writhing with pleasure. 

Dropping the sponge away from their wings entirely, you release the sponge into the water and bring your hands down beneath the surface, winding them around the Morningstar’s middle. You closed the final space between you and Lucifer, your chest pressing against their back, and your lips hovering over the crux of their wings. 

Your breath skimming over their wings resulted in the angel sitting up straighter, their wings flexing in anticipation. With hands roaming to Lucifer’s breasts, you finally place your lips upon their wings, pressing a kiss to the joint of both wings. The breathy moan that escaped their lips generated a throbbing between your legs.

“Oh, little angel...” Lucifer couldn’t contain themselves, their voice shaking as they spoke. 

This reaction spurned you onwards, your tongue darting from your lips to drag a long lick across the space you had kissed. The next moan from the Morningstar came out strangled, their tall form doubling over involuntarily as their wings stretched out horizontally as far as they could go. 

You were sure Lucifer folding over was their attempt to avoid your mouth, not wanting to show the vulnerability that came from touching their wings. 

“No, no, no, my love...” You scold, fingers finding their nipples to pinch and twist, resulting in their spine straightening back towards you. They hissed in response, not appreciating the way you so easily controlled and manipulated their body. 

There you found the sweet spot, the gentle kissing and licking of any available portion of their wings while your hands kept busy with teasing their nipples. The Morningstar began to rock back and forth, shoulder and bicep muscles contracting and relaxing, causing their whole body to shake as their mind struggled to pick a sensation to focus on. 

“P-please, lamb… Don’t- Don’t stop…” Lucifer’s voice quivered as they begged for more which caused you to bite your bottom lip to suppress a moan. Their sounds of pleasure were intoxicating for you as they were unlike anything you had ever heard before.

In turn, you then chose to tentatively scrape your teeth against the hardened ridge of their wing, leaving the Morningstar a complete puddle in your arms. The angel cried out, a noise that made you wonder if it was a sob. 

You repeated the action, pressing your tongue to each of the spots where you scraped your teeth. Lucifer began to unravel, repeating the word ‘more’ over and over again until it became an unintelligible mumble as the words ran together. And while you couldn’t see the look on the Morningstar’s face, you would have been pleased to see the angel nearly in tears as the sensation of your mouth was almost too much for the immortal to handle.

The steady rocking of Lucifer’s hips drew your mind to something even more pleasurable for the Morningstar. Your left hand released their breast and you pushed the now free hand between their legs, fingers finding their clit with ease. The kneading of Lucifer’s breast and teasing of their clit became secondary to your mouth’s ministrations against their wings.

The warm water began lapping at the edges of the tub when Lucifer’s thrashing grew more unhinged. Their hands reached back, clawing for your thighs, grasping them tightly as they bucked their hips against your hand. 

It felt as if your bodies were melding into one. Their pleasure was your pleasure. 

You were struggling to get leverage over the angel, their size much greater than your own. Relinquishing their breast, you draw your hand back, shifting it up the Morningstar’s back and up around their neck, squeezing as you spoke, “Tell me what you want, my little devil.” 

“Make me come, lamb… Make me come.”  

You do as you are told, pressing more firmly against their clit as you circle the nub. With your hands busy, you refocus your attention on their divine wings. 

You place long languid licks to the upper ridges of their wings causing your sweet Morningstar to thrash and moan in your arms. Their cries grew louder bordering on that of a scream. You were sure many of the demons outside their chamber walls could hear their master’s cries of pleasure.

The rough texture of Lucifer’s wings was delicious against your tongue, a sensation you were sure you wanted to experience again in the near future. You slid your tongue over their wings again and again, until much of the parts of their wings closest to you are shining with your saliva. 

“Oh, lamb… I’m- I am about to-“ Lucifer’s words came out strangled, every fiber of their being attempting to restrain themselves from coming so soon. 

There was no stopping the tidal wave about to crash over the Morningstar. 

They fully unraveled before you when you opened your jaw wide, taking a portion of their wing in your mouth to gently bite down. 

Lucifer’s head was thrown back, a guttural moan escaping as their nails dug into your thighs. You braced yourself against the angel, fingers gripping their throat even tighter and your left hand fingers pausing their work against their clit. Their wings spread outwards and gave a great jolt causing the water to churn wildly, spilling over the edges of the tub.

With the shuddering and shaking beginning to subside, Lucifer’s wings drew to a close and they turned over so they may gradually slip deeper into your embrace. Even while you had been romantically involved for years, this level of vulnerability with Lucifer was still incredibly meaningful to you. 

Their hair had become mussed and disheveled, the frantic actions of your lovemaking and the humidity creating the amusing display. 

Their head rested on your chest and you allowed yourself to draw them near, one hand coming to rest on the back of their head while the other traveled down their back, fingers dancing dangerously close to their wings once more. Their breath was still ragged. They had never experienced this level of pleasure with someone other than you.

Lucifer let out a long sigh, their hands danced up your sides so they could rest at your collarbone, “No one pleases me as you do, starlight.”

Their chest pressed against yours and your legs intertwined, generating a deeper embrace between you and the Morningstar. The slickness generated from the water created the most beautiful sensation between your bodies; enjoying time in the bath with your angel was certainly an activity to repeat again sometime.

“I am always honored you give me such control, my sweet sin…” You take a hand to their hair, combing down the flyways that marred the being’s typically flawless curls.

Lucifer only gave a pleased hum, their hand lifting from your body to gesture quickly causing a few inches of water to drain. This left you chilled, only momentarily, before the water turned back on, filling the tub with steaming water once more. It was obvious the Morningstar had no intention of exiting the bath in the near future. 

As Lucifer dozed on your chest, your half lidded eyes remained trained on the black, flexing wings that hovered just above the water’s surface. Only if Lucifer knew the additional plans you had for them once you retired to the Morningstar’s bedchambers.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Resurface 35 - Reappraise

Story to date in order (Tumblr / AO3)

Previous chapter

ART!VIRGIL KLAXON

Perhaps if you hadn’t read them before these two chapters (here and here) may make more sense of what Virgil has been drawing.

And if you missed the wee!Earth&Sky flying machine adventure, that is contained in this one and this one.

But now, onwards! Virgy-boy still has some demons to exorcise and needs Scooter to help him. Points to whoever spots the cameo from an old friend 😈

💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚

The view from Virgil’s balcony was very similar, but subtly different. They weren’t adjacent - both John’s often-empty and Dad’s always-empty room lay between - and the shift of a few metres to the left meant the light reflected off different facets of the damp rocks of Mateo and the shadows changed shape. The sea met the shore at a marginally different angle, the light refracting through the shallows and hitting the greener end of blue. Two of the trees visible from Scott’s were hidden by the curve of Roundhouse Peak.

Scott hadn’t noticed any of this before Virgil pointed it out. What he did know was that on his own the breeze was stronger and there was fractionally more sky. On a hot day he’d always advocate for the cooler, more exposed position. Where he could see as far as possible. Where he could breathe.

But on a cooler evening, there was something comforting about how the sun’s residual heat radiated from the stone and bathed Virgil’s preferred haven in a warm glow.

Virgil had added to the warmth that evening by opening a bottle of Scott’s favourite scotch which he’d clearly stashed away at some point. Had it been one of the others who produced such a thing, Scott would be waiting for ‘The Favour’ or ‘The Difficult Question’. In Gordon’s case, quite frequently ‘The Confession’.

Virgil, however, often just did it to be nice. And Virgil knew that, unlike Dad and himself, Scott preferred his liquor without rocks. He took another sip and rested his head back with a contented sigh, allowing the liquid to rest on his tongue.

“Scott?”

“Mmmmhmm?” The heat spread through his sinuses as he breathed over it.

“Can I ask you a favour?”

Oh!

The whiskey hit the back of Scott’s throat and his eyeballs burned. Virgil seemed hesitant which mean this was going to be important! He coughed and croaked out a hurried confirmation:

“Always.”

Virgil, staring out to sea, appeared not to notice his brother’s nasal passages vaporising which, again, indicated something was Up. Scott scrubbed at his eyes with a sleeve and with an iron will, forced himself to get a grip of his respiratory system. He was about to say something else encouraging when Virgil suddenly spun to face him and in a voice of utmost seriousness stated:

“It’s a weird one.”

Scott raised an amused eyebrow.

“I can do weird.”

“Would you wear it again?”

The other eyebrow joined it with vigour.

“Wear what? If you’re asking about Halloween and that cursed Superman costume, Alan beat you to it and it’s a hard no. I might be persuaded to consider Batman but only if you’re Robin.”

Virgil snorted and swirled the ice in his glass. The not ungenerous measure he’d poured himself having already disappeared.

“As you very well know I don’t do tights. Not after the Christmas debacle.”

“I think you made a lovely elf.”

“You’re deranged.”

“Yeah but you love me.”

Virgil threw an ice cube at his head before conceding: “I do. Yes.”

He then frowned.

“Scooter, are you CRYING?”

“Nope. No no I’m just… enjoying this with ALL my senses.” He raised the glass and winked.

Virgil narrowed his eyes as if invisibly scanning his brother, then with a quirk of an eyebrow seemed to conclude there was no sudden emotional devastation and released him from scrutiny. He looked back out towards Mateo and tracked the petrels swooping to and from their rocky nests.

Scott followed his line of sight and started a little. There was a small cave at the base of Mateo which was invisible from Scott’s balcony. How had he never seen that before? He was about to point it out when he realised he’d distracted Virgil from his question.

“If you didn’t mean Halloween… what are you asking?”

“Your uniform. The, uh, air force one.”

“Hell no. I’m planning to burn it. That’s not part of my life anymore.”

“That doesn’t sound very environmentally friendly…”

“Alright bury it then. Shred it and bury it. No… shred it, dissolve it in acid then bury it.”

Virgil blinked. “Have you been watching murder mystery reruns again?”

“They’re relaxing.”

“Riiiiiiight.” Despite the feigned disbelief, Scott knew that Virgil had been the one to add three hundred and thirty-six hours worth of ‘A Century of Detective Classics’ to the family server and he knew Virgil knew that he knew that he’d done it as a cunning way to tempt Scott into some downtime. Devious little brothers… who… needed reassuring, immediately.

“It hurt you so it’s got to die. Don’t worry. I don’t even want to touch it again. If Grandma hadn’t spirited it away somewhere to clean it would be gone already.”

“Oh.” Perhaps imbibing scotch straight into his brain had slowed him down, but Virgil didn’t seem as reassured as Scott had intended.

“Don’t you need it for Ash’s dinner? You should go to that, it’s important.”

“I’ll work something out.”

“Oh, ok.” Virgil went quiet again and Scott realised he’d given the wrong answer somehow but wasn’t quite sure how to change it.

“What’s on your mind, Virgil?”

He sighed and cracked his knuckles one by one, making Scott cringe.

“Would you… um, would you wear it once more if… I… for me to… uh…”

“For you?! But… I don’t understand! It made you so unwell? I thought you hated it?”

“I did. I do. But… I don’t want to carry that fear anymore, I can’t be scared of CLOTHES. It’s… I just can’t. It’s ridiculous. And, well… and I was thinking perhaps if I was prepared… if it wasn’t a surprise… it might… I might not react quite so badly? My last memory of it wouldn’t be… uh… so heavy? And maybe I could finish my book.”

“Your book?” Now Scott was really bewildered.

Virgil put down his glass and disappeared into his suite, returning swiftly with one of the large black ring-bound pads of thick art paper the like of which Scott had seen many times. This one was more battered than most and his little brother clutched it to his chest for a moment then cleared his throat awkwardly as he sat down.

“I found it when I was hunting for a sketch I wanted to work up for the exhibition next month. Some of them aren’t… very nice. I was going to just throw it away but Gordon thinks I should complete it… finish the story.”

“Gordon’s seen it?” Scott wasn’t actually jealous, he was relieved to discover - the little snakelike green monster’s appearance seemed to have been limited to the ‘other’ version of himself. But he found himself kind of intrigued that their fish brother was apparently giving art advice these days.

Virgil rolled his eyes and growled quietly. “You know what he’s like… I foolishly tried to hide it when he burst into the room and of course he noticed and he wouldn’t let up until I showed him.”

“May I see?”

Virgil chewed his lip and nodded. Scott shuffled his lounger closer such that they were shoulder to shoulder and felt his jaw drop as Virgil opened to the first page and he saw a vivid recreation in pastel of his toddler self proudly holding a tiny baby Virgil, Mom and Dad hovering in the background. The baby’s fingers were wrapped tightly around his thumb and Virgil had sketched several enlarged views of their chubby hands in pencil along the bottom.

He turned the pages slowly and Scott saw several scenes he definitely recognised from childhood photographs and some he thought must have come from Virgil’s memory. They paddled in a watercolour sea together, rode their bikes in oils, Scott dangled upside down from a charcoal tree with chalky Virgil underneath, arms stretched upwards. There was a cartoon school bus with a dimpled stickman waving from the window.

He smiled as he recognised the two of them with the flying machine on the roof, although he remembered it as much sturdier than the painting suggested. The faded but detailed cross-section taped in to the next double page disabused him of that impression. This one was covered in his own scrawly handwriting. Scott chuckled and raised a hand to the scar on his jaw.

“Oh DEAR, I’d thought it was a much better design than that!”

“Hmmmm.” Virgil rumbled “The basic concept was sound but the materials and our duct tape-biased construction methods left something to be desired and yeah… your “math” was a touch… shaky…”

Virgil smiled and turned over to another cross-section, only this time of a much more elegant design which was surrounded by small sketches of joints and diagrams showing balanced forces, each with the appropriate calculations painstakingly recorded in Virgil’s neat handwriting.

Scott gasped as he realised that this… this could work. Who was he kidding - it was Virgil’s design - of course it would work.

“You fixed it!”

“I did. I felt… bad that we never tried again and you didn’t get your moment.”

“My moment?! Virgil! I nearly killed us both!”

“You were only eleven.”

“Even so…” Scott tried very hard not to think of all the occasions since then when he hadn’t had ‘being only eleven’ as an excuse but the more he tried the more of them bubbled up in his memory like some kind of noxious gas polluting his only fresh water source. No. They were past this now… it was better. Things were changing. He was changing.

“I guess I had this idea that I could build it and if… if you ever came back…” he shook his head “it was just a silly…”

“No.” Scott interrupted, grabbing his arm and pressing his forehead into the side of Virgil’s head. “Not silly. Thoughtful. Ingenious. Seeing the potential in an idea and making it work? Very… YOU.”

Virgil gave a small smile and turned back to the book. Scott felt himself blush at page after page of sketches, all of himself - as a wide eyed child, a cocky teenager winking, a laughing adult flipping pancakes… even a few where he had apparently sprouted falcon wings, one where Virgil had them too.

Scott couldn’t imagine how many hours these must have taken to create

“When did you do all this?”

As soon as the words had left his mouth he knew it was a stupid question. Virgil shrugged and turned the page.

“When you were gone.”

Scott put his arm around Virgil’s shoulders and squeezed as he turned again, seemingly keen not to linger on any one image.

A blazing sun burned out of the page, the wall of colour marred only by a silhouette of the falcon-winged man, clearly falling, curled in on himself as the wings trailed limply behind, the dark shapes of lost feathers becoming larger and more detailed towards the top. No prizes for spotting the reference there. The real sun, heading swiftly towards the horizon seemed to lose most of its heat and a modern day Icarus-but-for-Many-Miraculous-Escapes wondered yet again how he could have been so blind.

If that one gave him a chill, the next made him shiver, the warmth from the whiskey had now entirely dissipated - a faint pencil outline Scott holding a heavily shadowed Virgil in his arms. Then… there was that same Air Force Grad photo, reproduced in a dozen different styles. The last one almost photo-realistic but crossed through in heavy red pen.

Virgil tried to skip several pages but Scott gently took his hand and turned back. He recognised the image of the crashing jet, over and over… pencil drawn, painted, scratched with a blade into a thick black layer of wax crayon. There followed a page solely of fire. Skeletal outlines of fighter jets. Storms. Crowds of agonised faces. An incredibly detailed map of Bereznik decorated with vicious-looking black insects.

The last few pages shocked Scott the most - all the pictures were drawn on scraps of paper, and then glued in. The largest was a drawing in black ballpoint pen of an almost unrecognisable bearded stranger in a hospital bed, covered in bandages and tubes. There were smaller pencil studies of bruised hands, a foot, an ear, eyebrows over sunken eye sockets, a nearly skeletal chin with a scar… his scar. Scott swallowed hard - he’d looked that bad?

One smaller image stood out as it had clearly been screwed into a ball before being flattened out to stick on to the page. Scott’s younger self winked and laughed up at him from behind the creases, one arm wrapped around a huge box of popcorn, the other hand reaching out of the page towards him. Virgil had clearly got hold of a blue ballpoint pen for this one and had skilfully used it to produce a rainbow’s worth of blue shades. The picture somehow gleamed at him and Scott felt the green serpent stir in his gut. He bit the side of his tongue and motioned for Virgil to turn over to the next.

The very last page contained only the sky in vivid shades of blue with light wisps of cloud: Virgil’s starting place.

Scott swallowed hard as he realised Gordon hadn’t been giving art advice at all.

“I put it away when dad brought you home.”

“It’s… Wow…”

“It was an outlet.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Scotty.”

“Not all of it. Some things though.”

He pulled his brother close again and planted a kiss in his hair.

“So how do you want to finish it?”

💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙

Next chapter

[melbatron5000]

Sleepy, hungry, drugged, lost

The record album covers from Maggie's shop have been confounding me for a couple months now. They are JAM PACKED with Clues.

A couple of them I think I have figured out. A couple of them I think are pointing us towards something, like a trail of breadcumbs frozen peas.

Some of them are just making me nuts.

There are repeating themes on the album covers, and I started sorting them into categories based on their themes. But let me tell you about the first theme I noticed right away. I call it the "sleepy, hungry, drugged, lost" theme.

Right off the bat, what the fuck?? Sleepy, hungry, drugged, lost. Who? What? When does any of this happen in the show? And why is it the biggest category of albums?

Let me show you:

Antoine Balynska: It's Been a Long Night. Song titles: I can't wait to take my shoes off/Slip into the bath/Read a good book/Have a watery nap/Grab my jammies/Curl up in bed/Press my head into the pillow/Fall asleep forever

Colors: Black, gray, pink, green. Crowley, shades of gray, God, Hell?

Theme: Sleepy.

Okay, great. Some weird song titles on an Amazon extra. Whatever. Except:

Hamid Moon: Sea Songs. Song titles: One day I started floating/Got lost in the waves/Didn't bring a paddle/Been here for three weeks/Can't see land/There's little hope left

Colors: Soft blue, tan, brown, burnt orange. Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale, secret Crowley?

Theme: Lost

Okay, the first one involved being sleepy, the second, being lost. Where are you going, Mel? Stay with me.

Izabelle McLaughlin: Singing in My Sleep. No song titles.

Colors: Black, gray, neon pink. Crowley, shades of gray, Heavenly miracles?

Theme: Sleepy.

Wasn't someone singing in their sleep? We assume Gabriel, but no name is actually said, and I'm not so sure. Don't ask me who it is, I don't know yet, but I don't think it's Gabriel. So, a second album featuring sleepy. Big whoop, right?

Oslo Revival: Come on Over to Our Third Floor Apartment. Song titles: We're having a party/Just for you/Four in a bed/Have this drink/It doesn't taste weird/We'll take care of you/We love you/You're one of us now/Together forever.

Colors: Black, white, gray, red, yellow, green, blue, auburn, purple, pink. Crowley, Heaven, shades of gray, Crowley, Crowley, Hell, Aziraphale, Crowley, Hellish miracles, Heavenly miracles?

Theme: Drugged, lost?

What the sweet Frances MacDormand??? What kind of song titles are these? Someone came up with these, deliberately, and then they got put in the Amazon extras. Why??

And Mel, what have you put in my drink? Where are you taking me?

Onward:

Raga Koboj: Earth, Swallow Me Whole. Song titles: Why can't I just stay in bed?/Sighing loudly/No one's going to lunch/I'm hungry but I don't want to eat alone/I wonder what's on the menu today/Probably something mediocre/I'm tired/It's Friday/I wish it would end

Colors: Black, blue. Crowley, Aziraphale?

Theme: Sleepy, hungry

Again, what the heck is going on here? Although now we have some overlap between sleepy/hungry. Still, though, what does this have to do with Good Omens??

There's more:

Randa Ransom: I'm Lost and I Don't Speak the Language. Song titles: Lost in Tokyo/What's that shop selling?/Sex dolls (self-assembly)/Where's the bathroom?/This toilet is singing/More sex dolls/There's a cafe for cats/I want to go home/What's home in Japanese?/Take me anywhere, taxi man.

Colors: Green, purple, red, neon pink. Hell, hellish miracles, Crowley, God?

Theme: Lost.

So here's another album involving being lost. Not hungry or sleepy. I'm still super confused about what's going on here. You? Great, let's keep going.

Rat Keith: Look at This Mountain. Song titles: The Mountain I Climbed/Assorted Wailing Chants of Peril/I Ate Some Berries (Shouldn't Have Done That)/What Happens on the Mountain, Stays on the Mountain/I See it in My Dreams/Soiled Leaves and Soft Bark/Don't Touch the Mushrooms/Huddle for Warmth/My Map Blew Away/This is My Home Now/Finally Rescued

Colors: Black, burnt orange, blue, purple. Crowley, secret Crowley, Aziraphale, Hellish miracles?

Theme: Drugged, lost, hungry.

With me so far? Good, me neither. One more:

Rehan Yu: Neon Dreams 2.0. Song Titles: Late Night Madness/Last Orders/Stumbling/The Night Tube/Falling Asleep/Waking Up in Vauxhall/The Night Tube (remix)/Giving Up at Wood Gree/Walking Alone/I Dropped My Phone/Shitty Kebab/Restless Sleep in a Bush

Colors: Black, white, red, blue, purple, neon pink. Crowley, Heaven, Crowley, Aziraphale, Hellish miracles, Heavenly miracles?

Theme: Sleepy, hungry, drugged (drunk), lost. There's the whole thing connecting all the other threads.

Did I say "connecting??" What the hell could the connection here possibly be?

The only thing I can think of right now is my theory about the missing scenes -- that there should be scenes opposite The Resurrectionists scenes, but they're missing. It's the only spot I can think of where someone -- Crowley -- gets drugged. So given the missing scenes should be parallels, Crowley drugs someone? Fucking WHO??

Whoever it is they've got in the bookstore, who isn't "you know who" any longer and was singing in his sleep? In both those instances, we assume Crowley and Aziraphale are talking about Gabriel, but I don't think so.

Is it Jesus 2.0? Except I suspect Nina is Jesus 2.0. Is it fucking GOD?? I know God is voiced by a woman, but let's let go of genders for a moment and remember God is often thought of and described in Christian mythology as not really any one gender. And given the Izabelle McLaughlin album, black and pink, titled "Singing in My Sleep," I think it might indeed be God. Though how Crowley might have drugged Her, I have zero idea. Does it have something to do with the 25 Lazarii miracle? Still, how could even that potent a miracle fuck with GOD?? What about someone else? Could it be Adam? Why would they kidnap Adam and drug him? Is it someone else ENTIRELY??

I will add that while I have black interpreted as a Crowley color here, it also seems to represent hiding and secrets throughout the show. And there is more than one person in the show with a black outfit and a pink accent piece. I feel like God's floating around somewhere, more present than we think.

I've also got purple interpreted as Hellish miracles -- but Gabriel's eyes are purple, too. Are those two things different shades of purple? I'm not even sure. It's kind of hard to tell. So take my color interpretations with a hefty grain of salt.

And frankly, I could be dead ass wrong about ALL of this. I could be overlapping categories that I'm putting the albums into -- sleepy, hungry, drugged, lost; only Neon Dreams 2.0 fits all four. That inspired me to put all these albums in the same category, but it's possible they don't go together. Maybe the sleepy albums all go in one category, and the lost albums all go in another. I don't know for sure. Perhaps they spider out from Neon Dreams 2.0? I don't know what that would mean.

But I feel like I'm onto SOMETHING. I'm going to keep poking until I find out exactly what.

[razorblade180]

Transcend

Chasca:*resting*…Hm?

Qucusaur:*lands beside her*….

Chasca:*squints*…..Aether?

A wave of light washes over the form before turning the boy back to normal.

Aether:You’re really good at that. It’s crazy.

Chasca:I think the crazy part is that you can do that in the first place. I’d be careful if I were you. Don’t want to accidentally hang around in a territorial spot. Or worse, a Qucusaur that thinks you’re cute.

Aether:I will free fall from the sky so quickly it’s not even funny.

Chasca:Haha! Yeah, I believe you. Anyways, you lookin for me?

Aether:*pulls out small box* Happy Birthday.

Chasca:Oh. You didn’t have to; thanks.

She tears open the wrapping and pulls out a canister; as well as very expensive looking bottle of oil with a Fontainian logo.

Chasca:Gun oil?

Aether:Yeah. I really didn’t know what I should get you, so I stuck with items that would be useful. Xilonen let me see the blueprint for your gun and I have a friend who’s super into gun maintenance and upkeep. Triple checked to make sure the two were compatible.

Chasca:….

Aether:Chas-

Chasca:*ruffles his hair* You’re a really thoughtful person. I would’ve settled for wine.

Aether:Heh, I will keep that in mind.

Chasca:Alright, my turn.

Aether:Huh?

She places her hat on him and tips it down before standing up. Aether pushes it back up and sees Chasca standing on her gun, hand stretched out for him. Aether gets up and takes her hand.

Chasca immediately pulls him in close as the gun flies straight up. Aether doesn’t even have time to scream before they’re floating above the clouds. Finding his shock a little funny, Chasca carefully helps the boy straddle the device as it becomes horizontal.

Aether:I think my heart is in my lungs.

Chasca:Yep. No better feeling. Except… *points onward*

Aether’s head turns to the glorious nation bathed in orange light as the sky was painted in shades of blue in purple. Breathtaking didn’t do it justice. He had completely forgotten about the rush he felt and just…stared in awe. Chasca sat down slowly and let a leg dangle off the side.

Chasca:No matter how much I try, I can’t seem to find a better view than this.

Aether:No kidding. I don’t think an artist would even dare to paint this.

Chasca:Heh, the probably would. I’d be curious on where they’d find all the colors. You’re…you’re the second person I’ve taken up here to see this.

Aether:…Oh. I’m honored. I bet she loved the view.

Chasca:Yeah, she did. Now that she’s apart of it, I can’t help but think it’s a little more colorful; just like her name.

Aether:Chasca, I-

Chasca:You did everything you could. We all did. Because of you, we left on good terms and no regrets. There’s not a day I won’t be grateful for that. Aether, thank you.

Aether:Is that why you brought me up here.

Chasca:Not exactly. I guess in someways, you two are similar. Always trying and worrying; down to fretting over gifts. You have a lot on your plate. Figured this would calm you down. I’m not the best with emotional moments despite my job, but I hope this helps.

Aether:..I know it’s a little ridiculous, but as a fellow older sibling, maybe I’m carrying more guilt than I aught to be. We’re not in the exact same boat but-

Chasca:Losing a sister stings. You’ll find her. Until then, feel free to vent this way. I’m pretty good at listening.

Aether:Between you and Mavuika, I feel like I’ve been doted on recently. I must be losing my edge hehe.

Chasca:Nah. If you ask me, Mavukia and I are probably thinking the same thing. Everyone needs an older sister now and again.

Aether:Hehe, is that so? *tilts hat down*

They both fell silent, taking in the view. At least, Chasca was. She shifted her gaze over to see a single tear shine as it fell down to Natlan. For a moment she pondered if she should speak, then was caught by a second tear hit her leg. Chasca ran her fingers over her face and found her own set of tears. How long has that been happening? Still, it felt rather nice. Comfortable. The two of them kept the golden silence. There was no more need for words. The company was enough.

[frodothefair]

Éothíriel Genderbend!

I 500% percent don't have time to write this, and it's probably full of logical inconsistencies and plot holes, but here's a fun Éothíriel genderbend plotbunny that materialized in my head the other day.

For context, there is a concept in the Balkan region of Europe known as "sworn virgins." It is a tradition where women had the right to declare themselves men, and from that point onward, they would go by male pronouns and a male name, and would have all the rights and responsibilities of men in society, but the price was to foreswear all sexual activity and, of course, marriage. The transition was cemented by a ceremonial oath in the presence of multiple witnesses, and there was an incredibly high bar to "detransitioning," while the penalty of breaking the oath was death. Historically, this was often done to protect inheritance, fulfill an obligation, gain more freedom, be the head of the family and protect female relatives, pursue a certain career, avoid marriage, etc. Some sworn virgins may in fact have been trans-male as we understand transmasculinity today, in that they actually felt like "men born in women's bodies."

(Interestingly, there are still a few sworn virgins alive today, but advances in women's rights have made the practice largely unnecessary -- unless you do, in fact, happen to be trans-male and want to remain celibate.)

Now, for the plotbunny, imagine that Éomer is, in fact, a sworn virgin. He was assigned female at birth, but took the oath when his father died to protect his mother and sister, and to maintain control of the family estate. But he also felt a good deal more comfortable in male spaces and engaging in male activities from an early age, so the role sat well with him, and he advanced through the ranks of the military and became an accomplished leader and soldier.

He might have lived that way happily until the end of his days, and having no partner might have suited him just fine, except by dint of Théoden and Théodred's deaths, he became king. And kings are expected to marry and produce heirs, and the line is already on the verge of being broken.

Now, Éomer King has a choice to make -- should be "detransition" and marry? One does not do this lightly, since an oath is an oath, and at any rate, Éomer has always felt incredibly comfortable living as a man, and to switch to living as a woman would be ego-dystonic to say the least. Alternatively, he could adopt a child of Éowyn and Faramir, but this, too, could lead to conflicting familial and national loyalties. A third option would be to keep living as a man but change the part of the law that requires "sworn virgins" to be virgins. But this would be highly unprecedented, and no, a king can not simply change a law any time he feels like it, contrary to popular belief.

And then, to further complicate matters, Éomer King is inexorably drawn to the youngest son of his friend Prince Imrahil, the cheerful, impish, and carefree Prince Lothír. And Lothír, for his part, is curious -- why does the King of Rohan have no trace of a beard? Why does he wear baggy clothes and avoid bathing with the other men, even when it's a common celebratory custom of male bonding? The others urge Lothír to leave Éomer King alone -- if he has secrets, and even if he is a woman living as a man, then it is his own affair, and he has his reasons -- but Lothír is relentless, and when asked why he is behaving the way he is, he grins and replies, "because if Éomer King was a woman, he would be just my type!"

And yes, yes, there is a "Lothír surprises Éomer King while bathing or changing" scene. There has to be.

*Also, if anyone is wondering why Éowyn did not become a sworn virgin -- which might have solved a good number of her difficulties -- it's because she may have wanted to do traditionally "male" deeds and exist in traditionally "male" spaces, but she did not wish to be known as a man or be referred to as a man, and she did not wish to rule out marriage. In other words, she wanted to be a gender nonconforming woman, but not an actual man. Also, if Éowyn did not marry and produce heirs, then their estate and the royal line would definitely pass out of the family in due time.

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