#that said the agony's worth it

[couriwaytown]

buaa.........

[scoobrt]

ah wow love getting suddenly hit with the worlds worst cocktail of emotions!!! gotta love it

[madlori]

My ankle journey

I am sharing this with all you good people on the dash because I am so fucking mad it took so long for me to learn it and if I can spare one (1) person the agony it will be worth it.

So for like...oh, 8 or 9 months, I've been struggling with pain/inflammation/tendinitis in my left Achilles tendon. I don't know what caused it. It just started up (welcome to middle age, this shit happens). It wasn't severe enough to be debilitating, but it was annoying and limiting. It was also intermittent, in that some days it would be very painful and other days hardly at all. The kind of shoe I was wearing affected it a lot.

Now, I have bone spurs on both heels (it's just a thing that happens as you get older sometimes). I'm also aware that heel pain is usually the result of tight calf muscles that pull and irritate the tendon. I tried stretching that calf muscle. You know the stretch, this bitch right here:

I did it all the time. I also iced the ankle after walking for awhile, hoping to avoid inflammation. Results were...unsatisfying.

I went to:

A chiropractor

A podiatrist

A physical therapist

A bodywork coach

They all gave me some variation on the "strengthen your calf muscle, stretch your calf muscle" advice. I continued doing this without results.

I was getting frustrated, and a little afraid that this was just my life now. Finally, I thought...maybe some targeted massage might help. I asked for rec on a local FB site and was pointed to a woman who specializes in therapeutic massage including cupping, etc.

I went to her a week ago.

She spent over half our first session working on my left lower leg. Within about 10 minutes of making my eyes water, she uttered the sentence I did not know I had been waiting to hear:

"Oh, it's your soleus."

Excuse me, what?

"It's your soleus that's the culprit. It's all tied up and stiff." She started digging into it and I felt literal sparks run up my leg as she released adhesions and got the muscle moving a little. When she finally put the leg down, it felt like it was on fire with all the blood rushing into it.

She said, "You'll need to stretch your soleus. It'll clear up, but it'll take a bit of time - tendons take ages to heal."

But I HAVE been stretching.

"No, you haven't. The usual straight-leg calf stretch only stretches the gastrocnemius, that's the big belly muscle in your calf. That's not your problem. That stretch doesn't stretch the soleus. Don't worry, I'll show you how to stretch it."

My mind is spinning.

So here are the muscles in question:

The gastroc (as the pros call it) just attaches down the back but the soleus runs underneath it from the knee around the side to the heel. The lower part above the ankle is where it typically gets tight and forms adhesions.

To stretch it, you do the same calf thing where you put your foot back and press your heel to the ground, but you have to do it with your KNEE BENT:

The bent knee keeps the gastroc from engaging. It's one of those selfish muscles (like traps) - if you give it an inch, it'll just take over and prevent other muscles from working or stretching. There are other ways to stretch the soleus but this is the easiest and you can literally do it anywhere. I've been doing it while standing and waiting for things (the elevator to come, the toast to toast). You just put the heel back and bend the knee. It's kind of like curtseying.

The minute I did this stretch, I could FEEL where it was pulling on my tendon. I knew that THIS had been the problem.

The massage therapist also told me to stop icing my heel. She said icing is for an acute injury, but a more chronic aggravation needs heat, to increase blood flow for healing. She recommended elevation with heat every day (I've been doing it in bed during "phone before bed" time).

I have been doing the soleus stretch at least half a dozen times a day for almost a week, and the ankle is at least 70% better. It is still a little tight and tender, but the improvement is significant. I think a few more weeks will have it feeling normal.

I am...blown away by this. This massage therapist was able to pinpoint an issue in only a few minutes that eluded all the other professionals I saw. I can't wait to go back to her and have her solve all my other problems, tbh.

[thebibliosphere]

I’ve had an increase in rainbow aura with my migraines lately (I used to get them once a year, if that. Now, I’ve had it twice in one month) so I’ve become somewhat paranoid whenever something flashes over my vision.

Sometimes, it's just light reflecting off my phone, but it still makes me freeze up in a fear response when it happens because it usually means I’ve got about 20 minutes before I’m in agony.

Apparently, this new paranoia extends into my dreams now, too, because I was running down a long corridor, aware that there was something behind me that I needed to escape, but all of a sudden, in my dream, rainbow zigzags consumed my vision, and I stopped, dead and went, “fuck, migraine.”

That's when I became aware of James Bond/Daniel Craig standing beside me, gun drawn.

“Oh, shit. Do you need to lie down?” he asked while I stared at him.

I said, “What about the thing chasing us?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, darling. If you need to lie down you can lie down. I’ll just kill them.”

I blinked at him for a bit, still winded from running then said, “Sure,” starting to get to my knees, ready to lie down on the cold stone floor beneath us.

“Sure?”

“Yeah. Kill ‘em. I’m just gonna...” I gestured vaguely at the floor. “Be right here, I guess.”

“You can go upstairs, you know,” he said, loading a fresh clip into his gun. “This museum has a hotel on top of it.”

“Oh good,” I said, starting to suspect this was a dream and not Daniel Craig about to murder the people chasing me because I had a migraine. “I’ll do that then.”

So I got back up and started climbing the stairs that looked an awful lot like the stairs in the Kelvin Grove Art Gallery, only to abruptly walk into Deathstroke and Nightwing doing their best to kill each other in the corridor of what was clearly a hotel based on the room service tray Nightwing was using to deflect projectiles.

They froze. I looked at them. They looked at me. “I’ve got a migraine,” I said,

“Shit, sorry,” Nightwing said, putting down his tray as both men stepped back to let me walk down the decimated corridor. “We’ll be more quiet.”

“Room 13 is open,” Deathstroke helpfully informed me.

“Is there a body in it?” I asked, now leaning against the wall, less walking along, more sliding.

“Not anymore.”

“Do you need anything?” Nightwing asked, “pain killers? Ice pack?”

I waved them off and made my way into room 13 where David Jason dressed as Detective Jack Frost looked up at me from the book he was reading on the bed.

“This is a dream,” he informed me.

“No it isn’t,” I said, despite knowing it was as I hobbled over to the bed and flopped down beside him. “And this room was supposed to be empty.”

“Open, not empty,” corrected Jack Banon who had taken David Frost’s place, dressed like young Alfie from Pennyworth as he sat beside me on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “There’s a very distinct difference between the two. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Who do you think moved the body?”

“I need to sleep,” I said, “if I can fall asleep, the migraine might go away.”

“That's all right,” he said. “You do that. I’ll make sure no one else comes in. Oh, just one thing before you do.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something I couldn't quite see and held it out to me. “You’ll need this.”

“What is it?” I said, my brain doing the dream thing where it refuses to read books or interpret numbers correctly. “I can’t see, what is it?”

“Oft, sorry. Can’t tell you that. More than my job’s worth.”

“You’re job...”

“Yeah.” and thats when he leaned over, stuck me with a needle and said, “Night night.”

And I woke up to the sound of @mothman-etd getting into the shower and Holly Mop wiggling under thre covers with me.

First words out of my mouth were, “What the fuck?”

And then I immediately pulled up Tumblr to write this down before I forget it because what the fuck.

Didn't wake up with a migraine though so... *knock on wood*

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I worked pizza it was a rough gig. I’ve talked about getting fired but the reality was that it was ridiculously easy to get fired at that place. For that reason it was a bit hard to get attached to new hires. Until they passed the two month mark it wasn’t worth forming emotional attachments.

Enter Daisy. There was nothing wrong with Daisy, really, as a person. She just was a bit ditzy and couldn’t hustle worth a damn. For these sins the veteran staff was almost constantly annoyed at Daisy.

But she was blithely unconcerned or unaware of our frostiness. She greeted us with chirpy friendliness every day that was undeterred by our almost blatant ignoring of her. This was fine with Daisy. She’d fill the silence we left by talking our ears off about her dead beat boyfriend, whatever thought was in her head that moment, and the current drama in her friend circle.

One day we snapped. Daisy clearly needed some hazing because we were going crazy. She made herself a pizza for dinner and passed it off to the guy working the ovens, then went to the bathroom.

I don’t remember this being premeditated but all three of us left in her wake lunged for the anchovies.

See. We had anchovies on hand for the very rare occasions someone asked for them on a pizza. It was terribly uncommon but we had them. It stunk up the entire restaurant every time anchovy went in the oven so we all unilaterally loathed anchovies. We assumed Daisy would loathe them too. We poured the fish juice from the can all over her pizza.

We all then went nonchalantly about our work. Daisy’s pizza came out and I sliced it for her as she strolled over from the bathroom. She smiled and thanked me and sat with her back to us, scrolling her phone.

We waited like horrible little imps of mischief, anticipating her outraged and disgusted cries. She lifted the pizza and we leaned closer, malicious in our delight. She took a bite. She chewed. Swallowed. Took another bite.

Slowly we became transfixed. We left off all our closing clean up tasks to watch Daisy’s back as she ate her pizza with every sign of enjoyment. Our malevolence fizzes out into shock. She didn’t say a peep about the anchovy juice. The oven guy had emptied the can over her food and she was unmoved. We couldn’t look away.

We were silent as she finished and brought her plate over to be bussed. We stared at her.

“What?”

“Did you… like… your pizza?”

“It was fine.”

I broke. I was broken. This girl, this annoying cheerful girl, had broken me. “Daisy,” I said in agony, “We poured anchovy juice all over it. How did you even eat that pizza!?”

“Oh! I thought it was really salty! I don’t actually have a lot of taste buds there’s this weird thing with my nose. I really only get like salty, sweet, bitter. You guys put anchovy juice on it!? That’s so funny!”

Reader, she meant it. She thought it was hilarious that we had spiked her pizza with fish oil. She thought it was even funnier that she’d eaten it all without knowing. We all kept laughing together through closing duties, repeating “I thought it was salty!”

That was it. Daisy was part of the team. She had eaten all the malice we had toward her and come out smiling. She won. The following story took place well over a decade ago. I’m aware it contains shitty behavior. You’re supposed to realize it was shitty that’s why I wrote it.

[cryolyst]

kinda sad that i wont be at otafest this year

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch5. child's play

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 5/x

ᰔ words. 4.8k

a/n. helloo my ihm friends! long time no see. hope you're all doing well and thank you so much to everyone who sent me kind messages about the whole ihm gojo ex wife thing haha. i really appreciate it :) i feel more confident about my writing decisions now, and that's all thanks to you guys! anyways, i will be posting shorter chapters for ihm going forward, so sorry if some chapters have slightly abrupt endings or stuff like that. i guess my goal is to post shorter chapters but more frequently! we'll see how it works out. anyways, hope you enjoy this chapter and see you at the bottom!!

nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 :: ch5 :: ch6 (pending)

Ever since admitting your mother into hospice, things have been calmer inside your mind. After passing the initial wave of agony that came with no longer hearing her voice down the hall or seeing her silhouette in her bedroom as you walked past it, you realized that…a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. No longer setting alarms at the height of every other hour to remind your mother to take her medication, no longer viewing every interaction you had with her as some form of study you needed to jot down in a binder for her neurologist’s records, and no longer driving her to all of her chemotherapy appointments, only to leave them feeling like you purposefully just took your mother to a place where they sucked all the life out of her in exchange for the slim promise of giving it all back to her someday.

Maybe it was evident in the way your shoulders felt less tense as you rolled them back, tilting your neck to the side and no longer feeling the painful strain that tugs a wince onto your face. The other day, you caught yourself humming a song as you drove to work. Your skin, usually feeling cracked and dry from stress and exhaustion, now has a slight plumpness to it like before. A more youthful glow, like the version of yourself you were before your mother became sick. The version of you that so quickly deteriorated, and one you didn’t even know still existed somewhere within you. 

There has also been time for hobbies. Rarest of occasions, you find yourself sauteing some yellow and white peaches in a saucepan over medium heat in Gojo’s kitchen, humming that song once again that’s been stuck in your head. The sundress you’re wearing matches the pink of the syrup that pools at the bottom of the pan, and you feel like you’re living your cottage core dreams in this brief moment of reprieve you’ve allowed yourself to fall into.

The sound of slippers tapping down onto the hardwood floor startles you out of your gleeful trance, and you turn your neck to the right to see a pajama-clad messy-haired Gojo shuffling his feet across the open area into the kitchen with a dark black mug in his hand.

“Why aren’t you dressed??” you ask him in a panic.

“I’ll get dressed later,” he tells you dismissively as he grabs the glass pitcher of coffee from where the coffee machine was nestled up against one of the counter corners.

“You’re stressing me out. Your mom told us to be there in two hours,” you say, putting your hands on your hips in disapproval as you hear the sizzle of the peaches in the saucepan. 

He entirely ignores you, choosing to instead drag his gaze down the form of your body. “Woooow, twice this month I get to see you in a cute dress,” he comments, pouring coffee into his mug but his eyes are still on you, “lucky me.”

“Oh Shut. Up,” you sneer at him with a harsh roll of your eyes, “your fake flattery might work on the lonely middle-aged women you seduce to make a living, but it won’t work on me.”

His shoulders push back before he slumps them slightly, his brow lifting with confusion. “It’s not fake though? I mean it. You look really nice right now.”

You point an accusatory sugar-syrup coated wooden spatula at him. “You’ve just been conditioned by the patriarchy to get a boner at the sight of a woman in a kitchen.”

“What–...no–...why do you always have to say stuff like that whenever I compliment you? Can’t you just accept it?”

You cross your arms over your chest. “I refuse to be flattered by an insolent man like you.”

He sighs, setting his coffee mug down on the counter, and you watch the way the fringe of his hair hangs over his forehead as he gazes into the contents, swirling it around with a loose grip on the handle. “Is this how it’s going to be everyday? I try to be nice, and you–...well, you know, are you.”

“Well who else should I be?”

His eyes lift up to meet yours, the slightest of a cheeky grin on his face as his eyes wander down the form of you again. “I don’t know. Someone a little…softer? Like, you’ve got this really pretty dress on, and then you’re telling me off about patriarchy-induced boners. It’s a little, uh, contradictory?”

You gasp. “You’re trying to control me. I knew it. You are poisoned by the patriarchy.”

“What?”

Your eyes narrow at him. “You have this image of a perfect and cute little wife, who’s gonna wear pretty dresses all the time, and bake stuff in the kitchen, and get all blushy when you tell her she looks beautiful, and you expect her to have this soft little personality that never argues with you or disagrees with you…ALL BECAUSE OF THE PATRIARCHY!!!”

“...I–...Okay, you’ve lost me.”

You let out a hmph! noise. “Can’t even discern his own brainwashing. Sad.”

“All of this just because I tried to tell you that you look nice?”

“I know what your ulterior motives are, you creep.”

His eyes spark a little at that, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a cheeky grin as he sets the coffee mug down onto the marble counter and he straightens his spine. You blink, watching with confusion as he crosses the distance between the two of you, to where you’re taking a small few steps backwards until your lower back presses against the edge of the island countertop. He cages you into the surface with his frame, followed by the palms of his hands sliding over the marble on both sides of you, and you feel his forearms press against the curve of your waist as he traps you in with no way out.

“S-Satoru,” you stutter, looking up at him with wide eyes, “what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” he says, his voice deeper with a nonchalance that has you shiver, his gaze dropping to your lips when you part them slightly.

“T-The patriar–” you squeak out, but he suddenly dips his head down to kiss you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, eyes immediately closing when he moves his lips against yours, one of his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer to him and your hesitation is something that only lasts a brief second before you find yourself kissing him back. Some noise leaves his throat, deep and raw and sounding pleasantly surprised as he captures your lips more fervidly now, his hands smoothing down to hold your hips and his teeth slightly nip at your bottom lip. 

You grab a fistful of his shirt, unsure of whether you want to pull him closer to you or push him away, but the moan that you mumble against his lips only makes his grip on your hips even stronger, fingers digging into the softness through the thin fabric of your dress. 

The oven suddenly starts beeping, startling you and you pull away from the kiss with a gasp, eyes rounded as you look up at him, but his are lidded and dilated as his gaze remains glued to your lips. 

With a heaving chest, you try to push him away by a weak fist to his sternum but he’s unrelenting.

“You taste sweet,” he says, like some comment he noted in his head but accidentally voiced out loud.

“I–...” you inhale sharply, “I just ate three macerated peaches.”

“Uh-huh,” he barely acknowledges before leaning in to get another taste, but you push him away harsher this time.

His hands let go of your hips entirely, finally breaking out of that kiss-induced trance he was in, but he still remains close to you in proximity, so much so to where you can feel the heat from his body. It’s comforting almost, radiating through the soft cotton of his long sleeve shirt, and you find yourself subconsciously leaning towards him before you snap out of it too, and rock your weight back against the island countertop.

You cross your arms over your chest, hoping the flush to your cheeks isn’t showing. “Oh okay so we just casually kiss now?”

He shoves his hands into his plaid pajama pant pockets, leaning away from you slightly. “For as long as I can get away with it, yeah.”

“You are breaking the rules.”

“You never said no kissing.”

“I said no touching.”

“Ehhh kissing isn’t really touching, though, is it?”

“You sound stupid.”

“I always sound stupid to you.”

The oven starts beeping again, and you realize it’s long been preheated to the setting you had placed earlier. You slip away from him with haste, feeling his gaze on you as you press a button on the oven to turn the alarm off, and you stare at the handle for a moment or two to calm the beating of your heart down. 

Your eyes catch sight of something on the side of the fridge. A little magnet made of rubber that has the word London on it as well as the design of the Westminster Cathedral with golden accents. You recall that Gojo went on a trip to London recently, and that he didn’t bring you back any souvenirs from there like he did for your other neighbors. And you want to pretend, you want to shove it down, that incessantly childish feeling that wonders why he didn’t bring you anything back. You want to continue to pretend like it doesn’t hurt your feelings. Something so miniscule and small. But you–...well, you can’t.

You spin around to face him. “Do you hate me?” you bluntly ask.

He blinks at you. “Huh?”

“Do you, what, I don’t know, think I’m annoying or something?”

He shrugs with his hands still in his pockets. “I mean, yeah, I do think you’re annoying sometimes. But in a silly way. Like we’re just pals horsin’ around, y’know?”

You snarl at him, putting your hands on your hips and narrowing your gaze until he’s hardly even visible anymore. “No. I actually find you annoying. Like, wanna-run-you-over-with-a-bus annoying. You just have horrendous social awareness and think that everyone loves you.”

“You actually don’t like me?” he asks, like he can’t even believe that someone wouldn’t.

“Yes,” you say, “now get out of my way.” You make an attempt to push past him, purposefully knocking your shoulder into him to assert dominance but he is unfortunately much bigger than you and so all it does is make you stumble ungracefully from the recoil.

He quickly grabs your arm to steady you, and you glare up at him before yanking yourself away and then step backwards until your back hits the fridge.

He studies your demeanor for a second before taking a deep inhale, and then lets it all go in a heaving sigh. “What do I have to do to get you to lighten up a bit?” he asks.

“You really want to know?” you sneer at him.

“Yes,” he says with a slight hint of frustration in his tone.

You cross your arms. “Pay for the fucking fence.”

He blinks at you, confusion replacing whatever frustration was previously decorating his tone. “What?”

“The fence,” you reiterate with a step forwards towards him, “the one I built six months ago. The one where you laughed in my face when I told you to help pay for it.”

He leans forward. “Yeah. Because I never wanted that fence built. Like I said, it fucked up the roots on my avocado tree. You should’ve asked me before building it. In fact, it’s illegal to build a fence without joint consent of both neighboring property owne–”

“Oh my god, okay, see? This is why I can’t stand you,” you snarl at him and make another move to get past him but he easily steps in front of you to keep you from going anywhere.

With a sigh, he relents. “Fine, I’ll pay for the fence.”

You try to keep the twitching muscles of your face still as you resolutely stare up at him, pressing your lips into a thin line. Through a strained tone, you say, “No. I don’t want you to pay for it anymore.”

He lifts a brow, utterly bewildered at this point. “Huh?”

“Now it just feels like pity. And I don’t want your pity money.”

“Two seconds ago, you did.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. That was two seconds ago.”

“So…let me get this straight, you don’t want me to pitch in?”

“No. I want you to have wanted to pitch in SIX MONTHS AGO.”

“Okay but what the fuck am I supposed to do about that now?”

“NOTHING!!!” you finally snap at him, the shrill to your voice startling him slightly to where you see his shoulders jump, and his eyes are now rounded blue as he looks at you. “There’s nothing you can do about it, there’s nothing you can do to get me to ‘lighten up’ or ‘act softer’ or whatever the fuck kind of damage control you aim to achieve with me due to your pestering incessant need to be liked by every fucking person you come across. So just deal with the fact that I hate you and let me do it in peace.”

He’s silent for what feels like a long time as he blinks at you, his bottom lip pushing up slightly in a way that suggests he’s almost impressed by your little outburst, then he takes a step forward, and in that one large stride, he’s closed any distance between the two of you. Your back is up against the frigid steel of the fridge, your heels tucked under the warm rubber at the foot of it, and you’re looking up at Gojo as he towers over you, his hands still annoyingly and relaxedly shoved into his pockets.

“Do you think it’s gonna be a problem that I think you’re kinda hot when you’re mad?” he asks you.

A small puff of air leaves your lips, like you just can’t believe the audacity, but also having him this close to you suddenly made it a little harder to breathe. “C–...Can you just be fucking serious for one second?”

His head dips down, the fringe of his hair tickling your forehead, tip of his nose slightly brushing against yours, but his gaze never falls to your lips. “You think I’m not being stupid fuckin’ serious when I say that you’re hot?”

“S–” your breath hitches in your throat, and his gaze finally falls to the lick you pass over your lips, “Satoru–”

Like God himself answered to your (cognitively dissonant) prayers, the bell rings, and Gojo leans himself away from you, straightening his spine so he can glance over his shoulder towards the door, a slight look of irritation on his face through the furrow of his brow.

You blink up at him. “A–...Are you expecting someone?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “No. Don’t think so.” He sighs before shuffling around the kitchen island and across the dining hall towards the entryway of the house, and you peer at the sight from across the hall.

When he opens the door, you see Sana standing outside, dressed in mom jeans and a t-shirt with her black Coach purse slung around her shoulder, arms crossed, and you barely register the fact that she looks pissed.

“Sana?” Gojo says, “what’s up.”

She entirely ignores him when she catches sight of you, pushing right past him and into the family room that you were currently finding solace in.

“You,” she points at you, storming right up to your personal space, “what the hell did you say to Juno when you were babysitting her?!”

“H-Huh??” you squeak out, taking a step backwards. “What are you talking about?”

“You told her to fight kids at school?!” she snarls at you, and your eyes widen.

“What?” you say, your face twisting with confusion, “I–...I never said that. I just said that she should stand up for herself if she needs to.”

Sana inhales deeply with rage, leaning back and jutting her hip out as she crosses her arms again. “Yeah, well, I had to pick her up early from school today because the principal called and told me she shoved a little girl on the playground during recess, and now she’s facing suspension.”

Gojo approaches suddenly from your periphery, standing in front of you as he faces Sana. You stand on your tiptoes to peer at her over his shoulder. “What? Why would Juno do something like that?

You hear Sana start to tap her foot impatiently against the hardwood floor, and then she turns her head away from Gojo as a slight hmph! noise leaves her throat. “The why is irrelevant.”

You poke your head out from behind Gojo and glare at her, but then Gojo turns around suddenly to look at you.

“y/n,” he says, “what’s going on?”

“I–” you start, glancing at Sana again who now has a solemn look on her face with pursed lips. You glance back at Gojo, who’s looking at you with confusion and anticipation. A heat spreads down your neck from the attention of the both of them on you, and you’re not sure what the smart thing to say is, so you figure you’ll just tell the truth as it is. “...I just didn’t want her getting bullied and thinking she can’t stick up for herself.”

At that, you see Gojo’s shoulders stiffen. “Bullied?” he repeats after you, then quickly turns towards Sana, “what does she mean, bullied? Juno’s getting bullied at school?”

Sana faces him full-on, raising a stern pointed finger between the two of them “No. Satoru. Stop. You always do this. This has nothing to do with you, so don’t even start. It’s not a big deal, let’s not make it one.”

“The fuck do you mean it’s not a big deal? She’s getting bullied at school, and you want her to just suck it up?” he asks, venom dripping from his tone. 

“It’s for her benefit!” Sana exclaims. “Jun and I have spent months trying to get her into this school! We don’t want her getting kicked out.”

“Y’know, I’m–” you stutter, “I’m gonna–...I’m just gonna go upstairs,” you say, “this seems like a family matter. I think you guys should probably just settle this on your ow–”

“No,” Gojo says, pointing to the couch that you were standing in front of, “sit down.”

You sit.

Gojo turns to face Sana again, and although you can’t see his face, you imagine he’s pissed off from the way Sana’s shoulders drop slightly and her sharp expression is cut into a more sheepish one.

“Who cares if Juno is suspended for sticking up for herself? It’s the teachers’ fault for not making sure she’s safe,” he says.

“Shoving other kids is not the solution.”

“Well if you fuck around, then you find out. Kids are too soft these days.”

“This is not the 90s, Satoru.”

You watch the back and forth between the two of them for the better part of an entire minute, feeling uneasy in the hostile environment of the room, but there’s a sense of underlying familiarity between the two, one that is recognizable amongst family. And you feel rather foreign, but then remember that, technically speaking, now that you’re married to Gojo, this is your family too.

Amongst the arguing of the adults, none of you noticed that Juno had gotten out of the car in the driveway and was now standing in the doorframe of the front entrance. She looks scared and guilty, fidgeting with her fingers in front of her, and you notice her scrapes and bruises that you tended to last week were now mostly healed. 

Gojo catches sight of her, and you see his shoulders relax. “Juno, c’mere.”

With the permission, she instantly runs towards him and into his arms from where he was crouched down to the floor in order to welcome her, and then she starts sobbing.

“I’m–hic,” she cries, “I’m so–hic–I’m so sowwyyy Uncle Toru…I’m–hic–I’m sorry mommyyyy.” 

You see Sana sigh and she makes a move to brush Juno’s tear-dampened hair out of her face when Gojo pulls her away from his shoulder by a delicate hold of her bony little shoulders.

“Juno. Listen. If people are being mean to you, then you do exactly as your auntie y/n said. You stand up for yourself. And if that doesn’t work, then you cuss at them and threaten to shove their faces into the dirt until they run away with their tails between their legs. Do you understand me?” Gojo tells her.

Sana gives you a pointed look.

“Oh, I–” you put your hands up in front of you, “I didn’t say any of that last part.”

“Do you understand me?” Gojo repeats again, and Juno nods her head slowly before she falls back into him and soaks his shirt with tears. “I’m soowwwwwyyyyyy.”

Gojo pats her back a few times to comfort her, and your heart breaks for the little girl. It’s bad enough to be bullied at school, but then to be reprimanded by your mother the one time you stand up for yourself…you can imagine how emotionally exhausting that would be for a five-year-old. 

Juno sniffles, rubbing her snot all over the cotton of Gojo’s shirt, and then pulls her face away to rub at her eye with a weakly closed fist. “I–hic–I just…I just wanted him to feel–hic–the same hurt.”

“Huh? Who?” Gojo asks.

“The boy,” Juno says, “the one that shoved me today.”

“It was a boy?!?!?!” Gojo yells. “Alright. That’s it. I’m grabbing my bat.”

“Satoru.” Sana deadpans.

Sana and Gojo continue to bicker about the ethics of threatening five-year-old boys with baseball bats, going back and forth about how Gojo wasn’t actually going to do anything but just wanted to instill fear (he’s lying), while Sana isn’t exactly sold on a single pacifist thing that he says, and you sigh, because you realize you’ve become invested in one of, what you feel like will become many, of their family quarrels.

Juno sneaks around Gojo’s legs and comes up to you while the arguing is taking place in the background, and she gently taps your knee as you’re seated on the couch. “Auntie y/n,” she whispers.

You rub an eye crustie from her face and then hold her hand in yours. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Mm? For what?”

She smiles at you, her cheeks pink and flush from crying but rounded now in glee. “My mommy and daddy spoke a lot today at home for first time in long time because of me. Because I listen’ded to you. Thank you.”

Your eyes narrow. “What do you mean by that, sweetheart?”

Why wouldn’t Sana and Jun be on normal talking terms? What does Juno mean that it’s been a long time? What exactly was going on at home?

“Juno,” Sana’s voice interrupts your thoughts, her arms crossed across her chest, “c’mon. Let’s go.” She points a stern finger at Gojo. “Seriously. I mean it. No baseball bats or rodent traps involved. I’ll talk to the teachers and sort something out.” She glances at you, that strict look on her face now dissolving into one of pure exhaustion. One you can imagine only a mother can face. “See you later at dinner, you two.”

Juno runs up to her mom and grabs onto her outreached hand, and you see Gojo ruffle her hair as she walks past him, her giggles ringing in the air, and then he sees them out the door. 

The air is awkward, at least to you, the second he closes the door, and when he turns around to face you, your body stiffens up.

He leans back onto the front door, crossing his arms over his chest. “Thanks,” he says, “for telling Juno to stick up for herself.”

You blink at him. “Well. I don’t feel too great about it at the moment, to be honest.”

He sighs. “I just think that Jun and Sana are raising her to be…kinda meek. I wish they’d teach her to be more confident and take up space.”

“Mhm,” you nod. Because you agree. Little girls need to learn how to be that way at a young age, because the world is seldom very kind to them.

“Well, what you said to her is what I would’ve said to her anyways,” he says.

You roll your eyes, standing up from the couch and heading back into the kitchen to presume your work on your peach cobbler. “I never told her to shove kids’ faces into the dirt. But, uh, sure, I guess so.”

You see Gojo enter the kitchen too in your periphery, but you don’t give him any glance or look or attention. From what you can see as you stir around your macerated peaches in a Pyrex bowl, he’s leaning against the island counter about three feet away from you, his hands shoved in his pockets, and he’s watching you. A slight warmth radiates in your cheeks, but you attempt to ignore the nerves by being hypnotized by the pink syrup that pools at the bottom of the bowl.

My mommy and daddy spoke a lot today at home for first time in long time because of me. Because I listen’ded to you. Thank you.

An unsettling feeling takes over your senses. It could be the past few years you’ve spent walking on eggshells around your mother, or the way you’ve become so keen to her energy as a way of staying on top of any shift in her symptoms, any single sign of disease progression, any clue that she wasn’t getting better. Any clue that she wasn’t doing okay. And you feel a sense of dread, because that skill, you realize, has now made you aware of similar circumstances in the people around you.

Not to mention, you are a child of divorce. You know what that fear feels like.

You just want to know if Juno feels safe at home.

“Hey, um…” you start, turning slightly to finally face Gojo, your eyes hesitantly flickering up to meet his gaze, “when was the last time you saw your brother-in-law? And with Sana?”

He raises a brow at you. “I just saw them last weekend for one of Juno’s dance recitals.”

“Ah…I see,” you say. You purse your lips together. 

Right. Kids say things all the time. They believe in Santa Claus and think that blueberry pancakes are called blubbery pancakes. And they sometimes read too into things, and they sometimes read too little. Surely, things must be okay. Maybe Sana and Jun had had a little argument with some stubbornly thawing cold shoulders, a demeanor that was noticed by their child, and now things have resumed to normal. That was normal. Part of every family. “That’s good to know…” 

You turn away from Gojo to stare back down into the bowl of macerated peaches again. With a furrowed brow, you close your eyes tightly to try to shake the chilly feeling in your bones, and you feel better when you open them again. The slightly numb sensation in your hand dissipates and you have enough dexterity to mix the peaches around in the bowl.

“I wonder what news they want to share with us over dinner,” you say, to quell the awkward silence.

“Hm?” Gojo hums, and you see him turn around face the counter now, hovering over the bowl of raw crumble topping you had mixed together, prodding at it with the wooden spoon. “Oh, they’re moving.”

Your head snaps to look at him. “W-What?”

“Yeah,” he nonchalantly affirms, scooping up a spoonful of the crumble. “They wanted to up-size, and move a little closer to the school that Juno’s at. I found them a nice place about an hour from here on the outskirts of the city. They just signed the papers a couple weeks ago.” And then he shoves the spoon into his mouth.

“Oh…wow,” you say. “Okay…”

“Damn,” Gojo says with surprise laced in his tone, "this is really good.” He’s staring into the bowl in awe and then scoops up some more crumble with a spoon.

You blink at him, irritated that he’s eating all your ingredients without even asking, and before you’ve even finished your dessert. It’s like he was born to piss you off.

You walk up to him and yank the bowl away, “Gimme that.” Then you pull it into the divot of your waist possessively and glare at him. 

He sighs, and then says something out loud that you’re sure he meant to keep in his head:

“I’ll get used to it.”

.

.

.

[end of chapter 5]

a/n. it feels so strange to post such a short chapter bahaha hopefully the ending isn't too abrupt. but hope you enjoyed! i'm so sorry ab the slow burn in this series aaa but i can try to assure you that it'll all be worth it hopefully lol i'm really excited for what i have planned for this series!! alsooo sorry if there are errors or anything, i'm trying to spend less time editing since it really stalls me n leads to writer's block lol. hope to see you in the next one :) much love! - ellie

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[theoldsports]

SOLUTION.

Art Donaldson x Reader | 5k words

SORRY SERIES LINK.

warnings: pregnancy, implied discussion of abortion, a boy groveling on his knees for his family, there’s a dog (a real one, not just Art), talk about Art’s forced weird athletic borderline disordered eating.

okay, i lied last time. THIS is my best work. this is very out of my brain and i hope you love it. holy shit.

Have you ever sat and listened to a leaky faucet? I mean, really listened?

Steady. Like a heartbeat, if you think about it.

Sometimes, though, if the leak is slow enough, it’s more like the kind of heart rate that sends the nurse with the crash-cart sweeping into the room to shock you out of an AFIB pattern. Or however that worked.

[Y/N] was listening to it. The dripping. The kitchen sink. It hadn’t stopped for days. When it began, it was steady. Now, it was irregular. It started the day Art left

Art had been away at an early season tournament. [Y/N] had an impossible work week, so Art had told her he was happy to go for the better part of the week on his own. They both knew Art really did hate to be alone in situations like that. He had always had one of his people there. His mom, Patrick, [Y/N]; one of them was in his corner at these things. This time, he was truly on his own. Art could not stand to travel alone. He had his team of physios and coaches, but not his family. [Y/N] was going to swing by and surprise him at the end, but her boss had leaned into her for trying to take more days off during release season for the big summer blockbusters. Plus, someone did have to watch the dog.

This context about Art’s being away is important. It’s not that Art was the epitome of a handyman, but he really liked to feel like he was contributing to their home’s ecosystem when a lightbulb went out or a switch needed replacing. The man was incredible with the small things. Yet, [Y/N] sat at the kitchen table with a frown on her face, trying to rough in an outline for an article. With the faucet dripping. If Art were there, or if she was with Art three states over, the faucet wouldn’t be dripping against the porcelain basin.

It wasn’t like the wifi signal was strong enough anywhere else on the property for her to up and move either.

drip drip drip. Said the faucet.

[Y/N] was damn near the point where she was going to run upstairs to the bedroom and get the baseball bat Art kept with the express purpose of running down the stairs in his briefs and cracking up on possible intruders. All she could think about was bringing the wood down against the glass and cheap metal on her kitchen counter.

A new house would have a working sink and a bathroom counter that wasn’t too small and a halfway decent wifi signal.

Instead, [Y/N] set her face down upon the cool blue faux granite countertop. The temperature helped ease the feeling of the hyperbolic corkscrew being driven between her eyes. The dripping kept dripping and [Y/N] wanted to cry.

This agony wasn’t all the sink’s fault, though.

[Y/N] saw on the tennis channel before she even got a call from Art that he’d won that weekend. He still hadn’t called. The lack of a call from made her feel ashamed. Not a soul there to celebrate the success with him. She felt an immense sense of guilt slide across her skin because she wasn’t there to witness that smile he got when he won. Sweaty and angry, but relieved every time. He still got that look when he won. Art was a machine on the court, and a competitor not worth counting out at this point in his career. He still looked surprised and delighted every time he, of all people, hit the winner. [Y/N] loved that look. Art loved how she would celebrate with him after a win, too.

[Y/N] prayed Art made his flight without delay that evening. Selfishly, because she wanted her boy back. Also because Art was mortally terrified of airplanes. Planes made him feel out of control due to lack of trust with the pilot. Without that phone call from him, [Y/N] was scared knowing he was out on his own and that he likely felt anxious enough to give a horse a heart attack. She would have no way of knowing if something had happened between the match end and now.

She did know that the sink was leaking.

She also knew her period was two weeks late.

That, Art couldn’t fix on his own. In fact, it was fairly obvious that the delay was more or less Art’s fault.

[Y/N] hadn’t yet taken a pregnancy test at that time. If she took the time to take one, it would make everything the obvious answer a reality she would have to deal with. She had scares before. Ones that she had never, and would never, tell Art about. She would wait for her delayed—not missed!—period and everything would be fine. Like the other times. It had to be fine.

She checked her phone. It was a blue slidephone with small rhinestone stickers she had applied to the back. Still nothing from Art. He said he would call first right after the match, but he still hadn’t actually called, so maybe it was time to call first. It had been hours since he said he’d ring up. It wasn’t a major concern that Art would blow her off. Ideas of danger and uncertainties flooded her head.

“I’m the one that wants marriage so bad. Not Artie. What if he says no? Or not now…?”

[Y/N] sat on the beach with her back against Patrick’s shins. Art and [Y/N] were completing their first year completely post college. [Y/N] and Patrick were twenty-four and Art was almost twenty-four. His November birthday set him behind.

Patrick’s hands were on her shoulders and his body in a beach chair behind her while they both stared off over ocean as the sun set. “You’re actually stupid if you think he’ll deny you, [Y/N].”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to step on his game, or whatever. The guy is supposed to ask. Isn’t this going to be… emasculating or something?”

“Emasculating for Art? For pretty baby? Yeah, okay,” Patrick teased. [Y/N] threw a fistful of sand at him. “Christ, okay, okay. Cool it.” He spit.

Art had run back up toward to hotel to grab his water bottle, while Patrick and [Y/N] stayed at the dunes. [Y/N] wanted to propose to Art by trip’s end. She thought it would be sweet. Art was extremely forward when it came to her her, but he hadn’t been forward about the whole proposal business. He seemed scared about marriage. [Y/N]he would do it herself.

She was grateful for the time alone with her best friend too. Sitting and doing nothing, or partying. Either was more than welcome. “He’s not going to say no,” Patrick continued. His mouth casually leaned close to her ear. “Because it’s insane how whipped you’ve got him.”

“Don’t say that—“

“He wants to have your babies. Ask him. Trust me, he’ll say yes and he will be all the hell over you.” His fingers worked into [Y/N]’s shoulders, feeling the tension there. He took his hands off of her when Art came running down the beach.

[Y/N] heard a click in the lock. Her head flopped to the left, still pressed against the counter, to glance at the door. Her heart rate increased. She was so tired and the speed of the situation so fast, that she didn’t both moving or attempting to defend herself.

Most fortunately, when the door swung open, it was her Art. The sun was going down behind him. He looked a bit ragged and had a racket bag over one shoulder and two duffels in the other hand. She sat upright sharply on the kitchen barstool. “Pretty baby!”

All Art’s gear hit the floor. The door was left open behind him (taking a big chance that their Labrador mix, Cheese, didn’t run down the stairs and bolt out and away). Art walked toward [Y/N], arms extending. His strong arms pulled [Y/N] in close to his chest. She rested her head against his soft gray t-shirt. Her own arms embraced him back and one of her hands tucked comfortably into the back pocket of his jeans. “[Y/N]… I missed you.” Art said into her hair.

“I missed you… I-I… You didn’t call. How did you get here—“

“Final match actually started on time, so I gambled on moving my flight to the earlier one. I didn’t have time to call if I was taking the early one. I should’ve texted. I got nervous with the-the flight. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

[Y/N] leaned back to look at him. There was no more welcome sight in the world than Art Donaldson. Irish genetics saw to it that Art was freckled from the spring sun. With shaggy hair boyishly covered by a baseball cap tipping back dangerously, he practically glowed. Even though he looked like shit. His sunglasses were hanging on his shirt. [Y/N/] tilted her head up, signaling for a kiss. Hungrily, Art leaned forward to take as many kisses as he wanted. His lips tasted like spearmint gum. Like always.

Cheese did run downstairs when Art’s hand climbed up the side of [Y/N]’s throat and when her own hand started to squeeze from under the fabric of Art’s back left pants pocket. Art had to pull regretfully away to grab Cheese by the collar and shut the front door.

Delightedly, Art did gteet Cheese with ear-scratches and a belly rub. Art received the customary licks and a tailwags in return. Cheese was always pretty down when the whole family wasn’t together. He walked and played a bit, but when his dad wasn’t around, Cheese kind of deflated. He had spent most of the time laying flat on Art’s side of the bed. It was obvious the dog was grieving the disappearance of his boy.

When Art bent down to pat his beloved Cheese, [Y/N] stood from her chair and bent at the waist. She pulled Art’s hat off and set it on the counter. Gently, she kissed Art on top of the head. With a scratch not unlike the ones he gave to the canine to the back of Art’s neck, the man looked up at her from the ground with a half-smile.

“Congrats, baby,” [Y/N] said. Art cut his eyes curiously from her to the tennis channel on the TV playing in the next room. That had him realizing where she would have gotten the information of his win from so efficiently. “How was the tournament? I’m sorry I couldn’t—“

“Sure, sure, but I bet Cheese here is pretty glad you were home,” Art said and stood up with one final pat to Cheese’s flank. “The whole thing was great. I… I’m kind of surprised I won, if I’m being honest.” Art said, wrapping an arm around [Y/N]’s waist.

Naturally, her hands flattened against his toned chest when he tugged her towards him. “I’m not. You’re fucking good at tennis, Art.”

His ears reddened in embarrassment as he tucked his face into [Y/N]’s neck to hide his face. Art was used to praise and loved it more than anything, no matter where it came from. Every compliment from [Y/N] was worth a hell of a lot more. Art hated thinking about why that was the case. He knew why, though. She had seen he and Patrick play and even then thought Art was good. Art still won the match when it came to [Y/N] and he would never tell her that.

“Hush…” He mumbled into her neck, planting a biting, teasing kiss there. She laughed. He laughed. “I played against an eighteen year old kid yesterday. He played really well,” Art leaned back to look at her again. “You saw, I’m sure,” he indicated the TV with a nod. “He would’ve won this weekend if I hadn’t won that match. Just… I’m twenty-six. Made me feel old.”

“…Glad you won, then.”

“I said if I hadn’t…”

“Well, if you’re sooooo down on your win then congrats on flying home all by yourself like a big boy.” [Y/N] smirked.

“Oh, you’re gonna be like that, huh?” Art withdrew his hands from his wife’s body and put them teasingly on his own hips.

[Y/N] nodded. “Yeah. If you’re old, imagine how I feel.”

“Ancient, probably.”

Art leaned in for another kiss. She pushed him back playfully. “No! You called me old!” [Y/N] laughed.

She leaned one way, then the other to avoid Art’s beautifully wrinkled nose and smiling mouth. “Please? I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You’re-you’re not old!” Art said and attempted to trap her with his arms and give her a kiss.

[Y/N] turned hard over her shoulder and ran up the stairs. Cheese gave a woof from the couch when Art chased after her. Art spent his life chasing after her.

“No! You can’t kiss me! Doghouse! Bad Art! Bad!” [Y/N] accused jokingly. Art jumped up the stairs. He took them two and three at a time.

Art backed her against the bathroom door. Nowhere left to run. His rough hands settled on her hips. “Gotcha. You’re pretty fast for an old lady, y’know. Late for bingo, or—“ Art smirked when he leaned in to kiss her.

[Y/N] shut him up with a kiss. She had missed his stupid boy babbling. His mouth was soft against hers. Art put one of his hands on the wooden door beside her face to hold himself up. The other hand found her belt loop, keeping her body close to his.

“I love you,” Art whispered between kisses. “I love you so much, honey. I missed you.”

[Y/N]’s head leaned back against the door with a soft thud. Her breath caught in her throat. “I love you t—mmh!” Art leaned in for another kiss.

The joy of being Art Donaldson’s wife was that he never got tired of touching her, or being physically close. Sometimes, [Y/N] would look over at him while she was writing, or making dinner, and he would be staring, or slowly extending his hand to her and seeing how long it took for [Y/N] to acknowledge his presence. It never ceased to make her feel beautiful. “Can we…” his fingers danced over the button on her jeans.

“Can we what…?” She asked coyly.

Art blushed, but smirked and lowered his lips by [Y/N] ear. “Can we fuck? Please?” He asked too politely for as dirty as those words were. Like the good midwestern boy that he was.

She tipped her head back further. Art kissed her neck with all the energy he could muster. “Can I not make you dinner first? You-you a cheap whore as well as old now, too?” [Y/N] jeered. Art snorted a laugh. The warm air from the giggle spread over [Y/N]’s skin, causing goosebumps to raise. “I’m never letting you leave home alone again, then.”

Art nodded against her skin, sucking and licking a spot they both new would bruise dark. The sound she let out was absolutely disgusting and Art loved it. “I would prefer to never be let out of your sight, personally.” He said when he pulled away.

“Come on, house boy… We’re havin’ dinner. And you’re gonna eat some bread,” [Y/N] said, pointing a finger at Art’s chest. He started to put up a fight about the ultra-low nonexistent amount of inactive carbs he was eating during the season, but [Y/N] kept chattering. “Stop talking. Your brain doesn’t work right without carbs. Braindead. Come on, dinner.”

“You’re bad for me.”

“I know.” [Y/N] smiled.

Normally, [Y/N] drank a cup of coffee when the pair made dinner. Art knew the pattern. He made her the cup of coffee every time. It sat mostly unfinished that night, though. She found herself heating and reheating it in the microwave as they cooked. She started to space out as he recapped the tournament in full detail, as she requested. If Art noticed, he didn’t let on. [Y/N] noticed, though. Little stood between her and coffee. She didn’t want to drink it. That was violently unusual.

“Hey, I’m gonna go piss. Can you—“

“Watch the sauce?” Art asked, indicating the creamy pesto she had on the stove while Art cleaned and cut vegetables.

“Mhm.” [Y/N] confirmed. Art slid over to take the spoon from her. He placed a hand at the bottom of her back as she walked away. Art fit perfectly into her life. It wasn’t fair how right he was for her.

She went to the upstairs bathroom instead of the downstairs one. She hoped that didn’t set off Art’s sixth sense about the way-things-had-to-be. Once upstairs, [Y/N] wasted no time yanking open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. It was overflowing, naturally. Makeup, supplements, condoms, hair ties, pill bottles, loose painkillers. It was a disaster. There was also a pregnancy test.

A laughing Art had given it to [Y/N] as a joke the morning after their wedding night and she had hit him hard enough to bruise across the chest. The test sat wrapped and in the box behind the mirror every day since. Just in case.

[Y/N] had officially arrived at just in case.

She gingerly tossed the empty box under the sink so Art wouldn’t see it without looking for it. Then, [Y/N] undid the buttons on her overalls and, well, took the test.

Lacking the time to sit and watch it come back positive or negative, [Y/N] tossed the clean cap on the stick, slid it into the pocket of her overalls, washed her hands and went downstairs like nothing was wrong.

Except she knew something was wrong. Now she felt like she had a loaded gun in her pocket. She was too cautious with her movements due to the fear that the test would slip out of her front right pocket in front of Art.

She was damn near about to step into the pantry and shut the door just to see if the pee stick had one line or two. If he wasn’t already suspicious, that would do it. [Y/N] felt that the anxiety created was easily the worst anxiety she had ever had. Oops.

[Y/N] got quiet. She was talking less and listening more. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but she was a chatterbox. Art would notice her blanched face and wrinkled brow eventually, she worried.

Ever the perceptive bastard, Art did. When he sat beside [Y/N] at the counter to eat a bowl of pasta with more inactive carbs than he had eaten in six months, he kept cutting his eyes at her. His bare foot nudged her ankle. Her dish was relatively untouched. “You good, babe? You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You are being weird because you’re not being you. I’ve barely asked you how you’re doing with all the excitement. Long day?” Art asked, setting down his fork to drag his hand across the back of her shoulders.

“Yeah, a bit.” [Y/N] said. What she meant to say was I have a pregnancy test and I bet it is positive in my pocket right now and I’m so terrified that I can practically smell my pit stains right now, baby. But she didn’t say that.

Art spun to face her, taking in her expression and demeanor. There was that contemplative knot perched between his eyebrows. The back of his hand landed calmly on [Y/N]’s forehead to check her temperature. “Art…” [Y/N] said, pushing his hand down.

“No, hang on.” Art said firmly. He tried to put his hand back on her face. Instead, not having a clue what it said, [Y/N] reached into her front right pocket and slammed the pregnancy test down between them. Art retracted his hand and flinched back a bit at the sudden movement. The test was face down on the counter.

Art’s eyes cut from the test back to her. His face was suddenly very solemn. “Are you—“

“—I dunno. I didn’t-I couldn’t look. It’s been in my pocket for twenty minutes. No idea.”

“Do you think you are?”

[Y/N] shrugged and looked at her bowl. It looked too green. sick sick sick. drip drip drip said the faucet.

“Do you want to know if you are?” Art asked wide-eyed. “I want to know, personally. Do… Do you?”

Again, [Y/N] shrugged. “If we don’t look, it’s not real.”

“…That’s stupid.” Art shook his head.

“You’re stupid.”

Art sighed. “I’m gonna look. I mean, I’m going to turn it over,” his eyes frantically reached for [Y/N]’s. He grabbed her hand with his to get her attention. “I’m going to look. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah.” She whispered and it was okay.

And she was pregnant.

Two blue lines stared at them.

“Fuck.” [Y/N] said. She felt both elated and humiliated. She wanted so badly to be a mother. She wanted to cry. How could they keep it? The timing was wrong. She hadn’t agreed to this. The two of them had so many fights about it. She barely understood how this happened. She thought they were being so careful. It didn’t make any sense. Every precaution she could think of had been taken at one point or another.

And the fucking faucet was still dripping. She could hear it. drip drip drip. Over and over.

“Fuck.” She said sliding out of her chair and standing unsteadily. That wasn’t the result one should feel when they get something they have spent so long wanting.

Art ran his hands through his hair. He knew he shouldn’t be smiling when she looked so worried. His face betrayed the wide smile he hoped to hide. That’s exactly what he wanted to see. Fuck.

“Honey… Hey, hey. You’re okay. This is awesome. C’mere.” Art said like he was diffusing a bomb. His arm were wide open to hold her.

“Art…”

“No, uh-uh. Just come here. Please.”

Cautiously, [Y/N] made her way into her favorite pair of arms in the world. “It’s not supposed to be like this.” [Y/N] choked out as Art held her.

“Shh, I know, I know,” Art said calmly. His left hand’s fingers brushed her hair away from her face. “But that’s how it is now. We have to accept that and solve for the next move, right?” It was silent for a while after that. [Y/N]’s arms were tightly wrapped around Art’s shoulders and their bowls of pasta were certainly cold. She felt that she had ruined everything.

She glanced at Art’s face. The small smile betrayed him. “Art… We can’t. Not now.” she had told Art not now so many times that it felt forced and rehearsed. Now that [Y/N] that was actually pregnant, she wanted nothing more than to stay pregnant. The timing was far from good. She had articles that were still very due the next day. She had a husband who very much traveled often for work (who she traveled with too). She had Cheese, who was staring at her weird over the back the couch because he didn’t understand crying.

“What do you mean we can’t?” Art said quietly. “We-We can. We… have. We are… Actively.” He fumbled.

“We can. We did! But… You know now’s not a good time, baby.” [Y/N] countered weakly.

Art’s hands never left [Y/N]’s waist. “Let’s run pros and cons.”

“Pretty baby.” She said accusatorially. Good old analytic Art…

“Let’s run pros and cons.” Art repeated unflinchingly. He sprang up off of his barstool to gather a sharpie and a legal pad from some drawer. Art uncapped the marker harshly with his teeth. Cap between his teeth still, he asked: “Do you want it?” while he found a clean, smooth page.

Before she could respond with her head, [Y/N] responded with her heart. She nodded a yes to him immediately. “Do you?”

Art capped the back end of the marker to free up his mouth. “More than anything ever, I think. It would probably kill me a little bit, actually, if… Yeah. I understand and it’s all up to you, honey, but… Yeah.” His hand created a PRO column and a CON column on the page.

Under PRO, Art added the items he knew would cause no trouble in his blocky capitalized handwriting:

FINALLY START FAMILY

NATURAL/EASY START

SEASON ALMOST OVER

[Y/N] HAS FLEXIBLE HRS

DREAM COME TRUE??

WILL BE GR8 PARENTS

[Y/N] nodded in approval. She couldn’t think of more pros, but Art handed her the marker and she started in on the CON list:

OLYMPICS??

ART’S NEVER HOME

EXPENSIVE

SMOKING/COFFEE

CHEESE JEALOUS?

TOO YOUNG!

Art drew the line at giving up stimulants and assigning the dog human traits and struck both of those off the list with a frown.

Frankly, Art thought the cons list turned out rude.

“I haven’t qualified for the Olympics yet,” he protested. “And if I do, imagine how early on that would be. Before all the hard stuff.”

[Y/N] replied with the thing they both knew was the most real problem. She had waited forever to say it out loud. “No offense… You are never home anymore. You’re busy all the time. Which I get. It’s your job. You’re good at your job. But look how excited the fuckin’ dog got to see you because you were gone so long. You are never here. We can’t put a human in doggy day camp all the time. It would be fucking impossible to raise—“

“I’ll quit,” Art said, wincing. He wouldn’t. [Y/N] felt that this was a bluff. He tried in vain to hide his expression of shame. “I’ll quit tennis.” He said. He wasn’t going to.

“That would worsen the problem. No money.”

“I’ll work at the 7/11. I’ll be a construction worker. I could be a fuckin’ coach. I actually have a degree, y’know, I can use it. I’m more than a racket. I don’t want you to feel alone here. I want to be here for all of it, I can—“

“You know I’m alone here a lot, babe. A lot. You don’t… You’re in a position where you’re unable to help constantly. Because you’re gone. That’s okay. I married you knowing that, right? But a baby, Art? That’s not fair.”

“I’ll bail on a season. I will. I just…” Art stared at her. “Please. I’m begging you. See this kid through with me.”

The sharpie was forgotten on the counter along with dinner. Art’s knees landed on the floor before [Y/N]. Art practically lived on his knees in front of [Y/N]. He gathered [Y/N] hands in his. “Please. It’s your call, but hear me out. Because that thing is part of both us. I don’t want you to hate or resent me or the little stinker forever, but you want it. I know that. Hear me out.” His beautiful two-tone eyes stared up at her.

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“I will give you anything. Please, my world is you. Not tennis; you. I’m telling you, I-I would leave that behind to be anything you need right now. Just ask it. You’re my fucking priority, you got that? I just.. I… Please? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I want to keep it too, but—“

“Then what’s the big deal?” Art asked hopefully.

“It isn’t a good time. It’s too soon.”

Art’s mouth trailed kisses across his wife’s stomach and hips and hands and arms. He let this go on for several minutes. “Please,” Art whimpered pathetically into the skin of her wrist. “Please, please, please. I will do anything, my love. I’m on my knees here,” Art looked up at her through thick lashes. “We can do this. Both of us together. I’ll do whatever you want. You know I will. This can be good for us. I’m really sorry we’re here, but here we are, hon. What time’s going to be the right time? Please. I love you.” Art pleaded desperately.

[Y/N] knew this was going to be a disaster. But she wanted to keep it. What time’s going to be the right time? rung in her ears over and over, like the faucet. They had put so much time into arguing about the time and the place that would be right for a family. Now it was right in front of them. Her hand caressed Art’s face. She loved it when he groveled like that. This time, on his knees and everything. On instinct, he nuzzled his face into her hand and looked up at her through long lashes.

“Will you fix the faucet? It’s been dripping all week.”

“Anything.”

“I’ll… I’ll think about it. I’m going to think about it. The baby.”

“You will?” Art’s teary eyes widened.

“Objectively, this is a terrible fucking idea. We both know that. But if it’s really so terrible, why do I feel, like… happy about it…”

Art’s face lit up. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. [Y/N], honestly, found it very hard to say no to Art. His arms wrapped carefully around her thighs while his head rested against her middle as he knelt. [Y/N] could feel his silver ring through the denim of her overalls. “God, I love you. I love you, [Y/N]. We’re not going to regret this. Holy shit…”

“Love you too. We’re gonna… We’re gonna try, maybe? This doesn’t feel real. Does this feel real? I…”

“It feels like a dream is what it feels like,” Art mumbled into her clothes. “I love you.” Art said, pressing a kiss to her stomach.

“I love you.”

“I’m gonna be a dad…” Art almost wept. “If you, y’know, but… Shit. I’m sorry.” Which part he was apologizing for was unclear.

At that, [Y/N] laughed and tangled her fingers in his curly blonde mop of hair. “Yeah, you’re gonna be a fucking dad, pretty baby.” She smiled.

[Y/N]’s next instinct was to say: I have to call Patrick. Then she remembered couldn’t call Patrick.

TAGLIST (ask to join):

@diorrfairy @donaldsonsdarling @muthafuckingstargirl @shysstuff @soberbabes @avylanchce

apologies for tag issues. i’ll dm those it didn’t work for!

[weasleys-wizard-writes]

Latency Lingering {F.W}

Chapter I - Same Eyes, Twice Over

Synopsis: just over three years after making the decision to end things with Fred to keep yourself and your new secret(s) from holding him back, you're finally faced with the consequences when you run into Molly and she sees those very same "secrets" for herself. Suddenly, it seems very unlikely that a life without Fred Weasley in it will remain possible for you.

All the time in the world could not have properly prepared you for this moment.

You weren't entirely convinced, after all, that anyone was supposed to endure the agony of facing a disappointed Molly Weasley head on.

But then, here you were, dual stroller handlebar clenched so tightly in your hands that you feared you might just warp it, doing exactly that.

Had the four years of peace been worth it, you wondered, in exchange for the inevitable chaos that was soon to descend upon you like a long prophesied swarm of locusts set free of the hell from whence they'd come?

Likely not.

But what else could you have done?

You had only been eighteen measly years old, after all, a babe in the grand scheme of things, suddenly thrust into reality as a dull blade might be through flesh and bone.

(Messily, and with a staggering amount of force).

Though, you certainly felt rather unlike the blade in that analogy, and far more so like the flesh...

Nevertheless, you'd persisted. Done what you'd had to in order to preserve your sanity and the livelihood of the man you'd loved.

Perhaps still did, not that it mattered.

Fred was long gone, you had made sure of it that night in the astronomy tower the evening before he and his brother, your once closest friend, had made their daring escape from the hell that had been Hogwarts at that time.

You'd shattered the poor boy's heart after three and a half years of love and adoration, all to preserve his dreams.

Shame you'd done all you could to ensure he'd never know it.

"Please love, I don't understand."

He'd plead, dexterous fingers running through mussed up ginger locks as he paced back and forth about the room you were both stood in.

You'd only just barely resisted the urge to say it was all a joke then, desperate to reach out and feel him one more time, to fix the hairs that had sprung up all about his head as a result of his restless ministrations.

But you hadn't. You couldn't.

Things would be better, you knew, if you just stayed away.

You'd retreated further out of his grasp to keep yourself from holding him not long after the urge had arose. The look in his eyes, pained and confused, was enough to tear your heart in two, though you supposed that it was thirds if you really thought about it.

You would miss George, after all. What was a girl to do without her best friend, especially in times such as these?

"I'm sorry, Fred."

You said resolutely, not feeling nearly as certain as you'd sounded in that moment.

"I just- I can't deal with the distance, nor the strain of it all. There's far too much for me to worry about here, I can't risk stretching myself too thin worrying to death over you and your brother."

That much was true, you supposed, though in the end he'd never really know the half of it. That you couldn't risk stretching yourself too thin because of just how much was about to change, and because it would mean harming another to do so.

You had far more than just yourself to think about now.

In response to your words, your boyfriend stared at you as if you'd grown a second head, beautiful brown eyes wide and teary as he pulled a shaking, uncertain breath in through his parted lips.

"This can't be happening."

He'd whispered, a humorless laugh leaving his mouth and echoing throughout the mostly empty space, nearly making you shudder.

"Merlin Y/n, just last night you were cracking jokes about me taking your surname instead of the other way around. We spoke of a home, domestic dinner parties, Godric, even names for our bloody children!"

He'd exclaimed, hands flying up into their air as you'd watched on sorrowfully, recalling the very conversations he was speaking of.

You'd certainly take his thoughts from them into consideration when you-

"Lords woman, you're wearing a promise ring! This isn't some summer fling you can just toss aside with no warning, we've a whole future planned together!"

He sounded near hysterical now, confusion melding with panic to rob him of reason even in the darkened halls of the astronomy tower, and you'd shuddered to think of what Umbridge would do if she found out the two of you were up there at such an hour.

It was hardly negligible to risk yourself harm anymore, you simply couldn't resolve to allow things to continue any further.

And so, you hadn't.

"Fred, I'm sorry."

You began, lower lip wobbling in a way you hoped he couldn't make out despite the feigned certainty present in your tone.

"But I've made up my mind. We're destined to take life on two very different paths, you and I, and I can't let myself pretend this makes sense for even another moment. I love you far too much to allow this to persist and risk hurting you further."

And with that, you were gone, leaving the love of your life behind to wonder what on earth had gone wrong.

You hadn't seen Fred since then, at least not as far as you were aware, avoiding every event he could possibly turn up at within reason...

Though, avoiding his family, that had proven to be a far more difficult task, particularly whilst you'd been attending Hogwarts with them after the twins had taken their leave, your relationship all but flown away with them.

It turned out though, that pregnancy was easy enough to hide as long as no one looked too close at your poorly maintained glamour charm.

Or, at least it had been for the first few weeks or so...

But then, much to your utter horror (and great surprise) you'd been informed that your darling ex boyfriend had been so kind as to leave you with not just one child to care for in his absence, but two.

It would seem that twins did indeed run in the family.

After that discovery, your glamour charms had taken a lot more effort, focus, and intention.

Graduation, you'd found, could not come soon enough.

And though you had "celebrated" alone, your notably small family wanting little to do with their soon to be teen parent of a daughter, it had felt like your first real victory since your decision to leave Fred had left a gaping hole in the center of your heart.

Perhaps it was possible to keep moving forward after all, if you could make it through several months of schooling at Hogwarts whilst pregnant with twins you would undoubtedly be raising on your own...

Though, truly, not even that could have prepared you for a moment such as this one, because far more than you had ever seen before, Molly Weasley was furious.

She was doing a good enough job of hiding it, but you'd long since learned the meaning of her flaring nostrils, darting gaze, and shifting fingertips, which busied themselves with her wand as casually as she could manage.

You reckoned you were rather lucky she hadn't hexed you yet, judging by how upset she looked.

And, reasonably, you supposed she had every right to be.

After all, it had only been three short years since you had broken her son's heart high up in the astronomy tower at that school you had once so happily called home, yet now you were standing in the same doctor's office waiting room together, one of you with a bruised ankle, and the other with a baby carriage in hand.

And as much as you wished it to be so, it seemed the universe had no intention of switching your positions. It was you with the stroller, and she with the injury, though you were certain you'd be obtaining one soon if the older woman standing before you didn't get the answers she was doubtless looking for.

"Y/n,"

She greeted far too sweetly, her eyebrow twitching ever so slightly below her hairline as her eyes swept over the blanket covered stroller parked in front of you,

"It's lovely to see you. How have you been?"

The question was meant to sound polite, you were sure of it, but the undertone was clear:

"I could have gone my entire life without seeing you again."

It resolved.

"And exactly who did you deem worthy enough to start a family with so soon after breaking Freddie's heart?"

It interrogated.

You scarcely managed to hold back a shudder in response, your smile nervous in spite of your best efforts.

Time had whittled away at your ability to hide how you were feeling, it seemed, since you had last needed to do so during your breakup with Fred.

What a shame, you really could have used that right about now.

"Mrs. Weasley."

You greeted, all but flinching when you nearly said her name instead purely out of habit.

You could scarcely remember the last time you'd had to call the woman by such a formal title, but you supposed you'd lost the right to address her differently the moment you'd thrown Fred's surname back in his face that night in the astronomy tower.

"I've been well. And you?"

Your response was far more submissive to the older woman's intimidation than you'd perhaps intended it to be, but even so, your persistent and undying respect for her won out in the end. It was strange, truly, to consider the woman you'd once very nearly called Mum an enemy.

Molly hummed dismissively in response to your words, brushing off your question with a wave of her hand,

"Oh I've been just the same as always, nothing much to speak of I'm afraid."

She sighed out with faux regret, fixing you with a look of marked interest as she continued,

"But you,"

She said eagerly,

"It would seem that you've been rather busy as of late."

At that, she gestured toward the stroller sat in front of you, and you blanched slightly at the idea of her getting a decent look at its contents.

Molly smiled once more, still far too politely for your comfort,

"Who's the little one, then?"

She coaxed, immediately forcing a short burst of nervous laughter from deep inside your chest.

Once you'd officially regained control of yourself though, you smiled just as politely as she (albeit with an apologetic edge) before replying.

"Little ones, I'm afraid."

You joked, never quite able to stop yourself from trying to make light of a stressful situation.

"Winnifred and Augustine, or, far more popularly, Winnie and August. They're-"

"Twins." Molly finished before you could even get the word out, her eyes widening slightly in surprise, "Yours?"

You nodded slowly, and the woman smiled ever so slightly for the first time since you'd come into view.

"Oh my, my condolences then." She teased, reaching forward to grasp at the blanket that concealed the precious cargo napping away within, doubtless tired after their long day full of bickering back and forth with one another.

She looked up at you then, seemingly unaware of the growing fear in your eyes as you suddenly realized what was about to happen.

"May I?"

She asked, though you could tell from the tone she took that it was far more of a formality than an actual question.

Such was the problem with older women, you'd found - They scarcely seem to bother actually asking your thoughts in regards to them seeing your children.

But this? This certainly could not persist, not if you hoped to-

Without pausing to hear an answer you knew she'd never had any intention of waiting for, Molly Weasley gently tugged at the fabric that had been draped across the front of the carriage, ignoring your nervous sputtering as you tried desperately to find the right words to say.

Unfortunately, they never came.

Forgotten, the blanket that had once hidden your beloved children away from the world fluttered to the ground, and Molly Weasley stared, stock still, at the sight before her.

There, blinking blearily up at the bright lights of the waiting room she was stood in, was a set of twins so familiar that it made her heart skip a beat inside her chest.

Soft ginger hair adorned both of their heads, and delicate freckles far too similar to those she had once threatened to kiss off the faces of her own children decorated their cheeks like stars doubtlessly chock full of constellations just waiting to be found.

But somehow, the feature that caused her the most pause was the eyes of the little ones sitting before her, deep brown and shining in the white overhead lighting of a doctor's office that suddenly felt far too cramped for the feelings she was struggling to maintain control over.

Those eyes bore a striking resemblance to her twins, and somehow even one in particular, one that she knew you were quite familiar with, as things went.

Her gaze darted back up to seek your own, and the moment she found it and saw the overwhelming guilt and fear there, she knew, and her breath caught briefly in her throat.

"Y/n dear,"

She spoke after a few moments of increasingly tense silence, the low chatter of the witches and wizards around you seemingly reduced to nothing as the sound of your own racing heartbeat drowned them out with ease.

Molly reached out to you then, slowly and gingerly, as if you were some wild animal she feared might dart away at any moment.

And truth be told, you very nearly felt like one too, especially as the following question left your almost former mother in law's lips,

"What is their surname?"

And immediately, you shook your head, far too overwhelmed with the situation at hand to handle any of it properly.

Years and years of fleeing in fear of this exact moment had done you no favors in preparing for it, and your shaking hands and tear filled eyes betrayed that fact with an embarrassing level of evidence.

"Oh Molly,"

You begged softly, using the woman's given name for the first time in years,

"Please don't ask me that. I promise you don't want me to say-"

"Winnifred and Augustine Weasley?"

A nurse called out hesitantly to the sea of patients located in the waiting room, her eyes trained briefly on the clipboard in front of her as if to double check her words before she looked back up curiously, gaze sweeping back and forth throughout the space, seeking out the two toddlers scheduled with Dr. Hathaway for the 2:00pm slot.

You felt your heart constrict painfully inside your chest as Molly's hand flew to her mouth, her once so certain fingers trembling as the truth of the matter washed over her like a freezing winter squall.

And, ever the coward when it came to family matters such as this, you were quick to clear your throat, doing your best to hide your red rimmed eyes and tear tracked cheeks before waving your hand slightly to the nurse who was still looking anxiously about the waiting area.

"They're just here. Apologies for the delay, I must have misheard you."

Though, from the positively dread filled look on your face, Molly Weasley could tell you had not.

masterlist

[fanficsformyfaves]

She Got Away

Agatha Harkness x Fem Witch!Reader

WARNING: ANGST, SMUT 18+, Violence, Mentions Of Sickness And Symptoms, Mentions Of Murder, Lovers To Enemies To Lovers Trope, Agatha Uses Sex Magic To Give Herself A Cock, Rough Sex

PREFACE: Reader and Agatha were together back when they still lived in Salem, but when Agatha takes the coven's power and kills almost all its members, she fled, living only Reader alive

A/N: Flashback In Italics!

Marvel finally grew a pair and gave us the lesbian angst we deserved

And yes this was heavily inspired by Chappell's unreleased song 'Subway'

All I remembered seeing, as the last of my vision faded into darkness, was someone stashing me inside a hollow tree and growing vines shielding me from view. In the far distance, her silhouette turned to face me once more, before disappearing into the thick fog ahead.

I hadn't seen Agatha since then, but I was determined to find her. After everything we'd been through, the last thing I ever expected was for her to betray me the way that she did. She killed our coven and ran off like it was nothing. Like what we had was meaningless and insignificant to her.

From that day forward, I vowed to make her pay, if it was the last thing I did.

It took a while, but I managed to track her down in New Jersey. It became difficult when I couldn't sense her magic anymore, but I knew she was there. It was just a feeling I couldn't shake.

I walked down the lane of houses, wary of the eyes following me, when I arrive at the very last one at the end of the street. I take a quick glance through the window and that's when I felt my heart drop.

The woman I loved all those years ago. The same woman who made me feel like I was actually worth something, just to take it all away from me.

Amidst the blinding rage that coursed through my body was the agony I felt when I she first left. It was a knife twisting inside me with no way out.

Wanting to end this once and for all, I stormed the house by kicking the door open to find her huddled in the corner of her kitchen. She tried hard to mask her fear with a cocky grin, but of course I saw right through her.

"Well, if it isn't (Y/F/N). God, how long has it been?"

"Three hundred years, six months and six days"

"Awe, you kept count-"

She was interrupted by a dagger I threw her way. The blade striking the cabinet when she ducked.

"I see you picked up knife-throwing", she teased.

I lunge forward, grabbing the back of her head and slamming her into the wall. I wanted her to hurt the way I hurt. Only ten times worse.

She falls to the floor, holding her head, as I grabbed another knife, but before I could drive it into her chest, she stops me by my wrist.

"Remember pain? Kinda tickles doesn't it?", I said through gritted teeth.

I only managed to draw a drop of blood, before she reached for the chair and knocked me off of her. She gets back on her feet and makes a run for the door, when I use my magic to block off her only exit.

"I'm surprised you aren't using magic to get out of this one", I say, following her into the living room and blowing a fallen strand of hair away from my face.

She sighed through her nose, not taking her eyes off of me.

"Don't tell me you've reformed?"

"Another witch took my powers. The Scarlet Witch"

I scoff in surprise.

"So you finally got what was coming to you"

Her lips were set in a fine grimace.

"Well...almost. I'm just here to finish the job", I say, using my powers to launch her across the room.

She hits a glass case and falls to the ground with a thud, wincing. Just as I go to throw another one of my daggers, she holds a hand out.

"Wait! Wait", she pleaded, halting me.

"This isn't what you want. Me? Without power?", she chuckled nervously, carefully getting back up.

"This is- this is undignified! Don't you want me at my best?"

She stretches out the kinks in her neck, making sure not to take her eyes off of me.

"Admit it, you prefer me-"

"Horizontal? In a grave?", I cut off.

"Formidable", she answered.

"Come on, baby. You love it, the anticipation", she whispered, taking a step closer.

"Hm. That would be fun", I shrugged.

"Wouldn't it? Just...let me get my purple back and come find me after-"

"Not a chance in hell. Which is exactly where I plan on sending you. I promise to make it quick", I mocked, winding my blade back.

"Wait! Please!"

I roll my eyes, irritated with the stalling.

"Look. I hurt you, I'm not denying that", she swallowed thickly.

"But I didn't want to. I didn't have a choice", she shakes her head.

"You always have a choice. Like not killing our coven for example"

"You don't know what happened-"

"Or leaving me...when I needed you", I struggled to hide the hint of sadness peaking out from behind my anger.

Up to this point, I was able keep my composure, but the longer I looked at her, the more I felt the pain I'd been carrying around for years creep up on me.

"(Y/N)-"

"I woke up alone, surrounded by nothing but a pile of bodies and no one to turn to. You did that!"

Agatha bows her head, unable to hold my hurt gaze.

"I loved you, so so much", my voice was reduced to nothing but tearful whispers.

"So could you imagine just how much it killed me when you left? To find out it was all one-sided?", I hissed through gritted teeth.

"I did love you-"

"No, you didn't. You don't leave someone you loved behind"

I could tell that struck a nerve in her, when the brim of her eyes began to water.

"Why do you think I spared you and hid you in that tree? Hm? So you could exact revenge on me three hundred years later? Why not just finish the job?", her tone now angry at my accusations.

I was dumbfounded by the revelation. It was as if time ceased to move and the rest of the world disappeared around us.

"What?"

"I left to protect you. It was for your own good"

"That was you?"

"Of course it was. Everyone else was dead by the time I found you again"

My brows furrowed in confusion.

"What do you remember?", she questioned, mimicking my expression.

"I..."

"We were in the woods. I was confronting my mother about conspiring to kill me, when you showed up"

Suddenly, rushes of the past engulfed my vision. The grief of losing both my family and Agatha must've been too much for me to bare and caused my mind to distort my recollection of it.

I was walking through the forest, looking for my familiar, when I stumbled upon the empress and Agatha fighting.

"You were born evil", the empress snarled, as Agatha tensed at her tone.

"Empress? Agatha? What's happening?"

The empress turns back to Agatha with a look of disgust.

"No-", Agatha goes to intervene, but was interrupted by me getting struck with a bolt of magic.

"Obviously, I struck her back and when the other members overheard us, all hell broke loose. I was running and fighting for my life for hours"

"Why would she do that? Why would she try to kill you?"

"You heard her, I was 'born evil'. Finding out about the Darkhold was just the nail in the coffin"

Each missing piece of what happened finally began falling into place.

Back in Salem, a devasting sickness swept through the town and nearly claimed the lives of all its residents. Unfortunately, I was one of the unlucky few that fell victim to the disease's rampage.

It started with a fever and a few aches, but quickly escalated to me vomiting blood by the pint. I was bed-ridden for days and sure to die as there was no traditional spell to cure my ills, when Agatha made me a promise to keep me alive, no matter the means.

"I won't let you die", she sniffled, wiping the sweat off of my forehead.

"Agatha-"

"Don't. I'll find a way"

And that's what made her turn to Dark Magic and discover a book called the Darkhold. In the dead of night, whilst everyone was either asleep or nursing the sick, she snuck back into my hut and performed the ritual that restored my health.

"I don't know how she found out, but somehow she did"

I angrily wiped away the tears that managed to escape me.

"Let's say you're telling the truth about what really happened. You still left me", my voice trembled with each word.

"I couldn't risk people thinking you were involved. If they did, you would've spent the rest of your life running and you deserve better than that", she said, getting close enough to cradle my face in her hands.

I inhale, shrugging to get away from her.

"I don't believe you"

"Seems like you do"

Finally fed up with her mind games, I grab her by the throat and spun us around to pin her to the wall. I conjure another dagger and just as I raised it high into the air. This was it. The moment I'd been working towards for the last three centuries...only I couldn't move. She didn't have her powers, so I knew it couldn't have been her.

"You can't do it, can you?", she struggled.

"It's cause you know I'm telling the truth"

She was right. The realization knocked the wind out of me like a bat to my chest. I knew deep down, no matter how much she hurt me by leaving and how much I hated her for it, she only did what she had to...because she loved me. I took a shaky breath and felt another tear roll down my cheek.

She lowers the hand I held the dagger and cupped my face.

"That's it. Easy"

Once my hands were both to my side, she pulled me into a tight embrace, as I nuzzled into her neck.

"Oh, sweetheart. I missed you", she sighed contently.

Her own voice quivering at the feeling of my trembling sobs.

She eventually pulled away just enough to wipe my face dry and in that moment, my eyes poured into her baby blues.

I didn't know whether it was the adrenaline or the burden of the last few centuries being taken off of me, but before I could figure it out, I dropped the knife, grabbed her face and smashed my lips against hers. I backed her up against the wall, careful to guide her around the broken glass.

She quickly got to work on pulling my shirt off over my head and I followed suit, untying her robe. I couldn't help but take a moment to admire her hardened buds peaking through her nightgown.

"Missed me?"

"Shut up", I exhaled, pulling her back onto my lips, as she moaned at my man handling.

Once we were done ridding ourselves of all our clothes, she spun the both of us around to pin me now. She held my wrists against the wall and trailed her kisses down to my neck.

"You're so fucking pretty", she mumbled, painting my skin with shades of red and purple.

I whine at her nibbling down on my shoulder and throwing me around her waist. She takes us to the couch and I grind myself down on her lap, groaning at the sensation. As I returned the favor and left marks all up and down her neck, she mumbles something in Latin. Before I could question what she was doing, I felt something press against my core.

"Is that..."

"Really thought I forgot your favorite spell?", she grinned wickedly, running her hands up my waist to hold me in place.

"I always did enjoy fucking you raw"

I dive back into her lips and adjusted my hips to help her along. She grabs the appendage by the base and uses the tip to rub firm circles on my already aching clit.

"You're a mess", she chuckled, taking one of my nipples into her mouth.

"Please, take me", I moaned, grasping the back of her neck and bracing for her to stretch me out.

In one smooth thrust, she filled me to the brim, as I cried out. It was much bigger than I remembered.

"God, you were always so warm...and tight", she panted between each subtle thrust.

After giving me a moment to adjust, she started with a gentle pace, reminding herself to litter my neck and shoulder with kisses to soothe me.

"My sweet angel, fuck", she groaned.

As I began to ride up and down her length. Her eyes rake over my form and the way my hips dropped forward and pulled back over and over again. With each motion, her tip directly pressed into my g-spot, making her name fall from my lips repeatedly like a cursed hymn.

Her nails claw down my back, earning a wince.

"I'm sorry", she panted.

"Don't stop"

"I don't wanna hurt you-"

"I don't care", I whine, diving back into her lips and riding her faster.

She uses her biceps to hold me in place, ramming up into me harder.

"Agatha, fuck", I whimpered, holding onto her shoulders for dear life.

"That's right, baby. You're all mine"

My climax was fast-approaching and all I could do was fight it off as long as I could, until she gave me permission. Even after years of hating her, my body never forgot.

"I can feel you getting close", she moaned.

"Do it for me, come on, baby. I need you to come", she pleaded, reaching down between us to vigorously rub my throbbing clit.

I came with a scream that surely echoed throughout the neighborhood, but I couldn't care less. My vision momentarily faded to black, as my head fell back from the overwhelming pleasure that consumed me.

She held me against her, groaning as she coated my walls with her warmth.

"Fuck", she grunted, still thrusting into me to help us both ride out our orgasms.

Both spent and covered in each other's sweat and essences, we stay still for a while to catch our breaths.

"Miss me now?"

Too tired to think of a comeback, I simply nodded against her shoulder, hearing chuckle.

"Welcome home, baby"

[hotvintagepoll]

LAST POLL OF ROUND 6

Propaganda

Ingrid Bergman (Gaslight, Casablanca, Notorious)—A lot of the time hotness in a movie is just about words and framing. "You're the most beautiful person here" [vaseline lens] well I sure hope so because that's who you cast. But when, in Casablanca, they call Ingrid Bergman the most beautiful woman in the world... they were not fucking lying. And such a dynamite actor too!! I'd only seen Casablanca up until last year, and there she's confined to love interest. But in Gaslight she was maybe one of the most incredible actors I've ever seen!!!! Goddddd shes so fucking hot and cool.

Lauren Bacall (To Have and Have Not, The Big Sleep, Key Largo)—"Just put your lips together...and blow" excuse me ma'am i'm briefly going to turn into a kettle. She's the quintessential Femme Fatale who may betray me in the end but I'd let her it'd be worth it

This is round 6 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Ingrid Bergman:

God, she's fantastic. She's both beautiful and a compelling actor who's more than capable of putting the whole movie on her shoulders if necessary. It's worth noting that while her beauty is conventional, she was seen as refreshingly "natural" with more eyebrows and less makeup than many other leading ladies of the time. She's well known for her role in Casablanca, but in Notorious, Spellbound, (both available on archive.org ) and Gaslight (1944) she shows how immensely capable she is.

I mean...she's Ingrid Bergman. I feel like that should be enough, you know? She's physically beautiful (her eyes!) but watching her is like a transcendent experience. Her voice, her expressions... beautiful woman, beautiful actor.

I'm a gay man but even I understand her appeal. I'll watch any movie she shows up in. Gorgeous woman.

Just try and watch her movies without sighing wistfully, then get back to me!

Choosing 1-3 movies where Bergman was at her hottest was agony because, of course, she was always at her hottest. Not just because she was beautiful but because she was absolutely willing to go up against the bs women in Hollywood were constantly dealing with. When exiled from Hollywood for having an affair with Roberto Rossellini, not only did she refuse to apologize at any point, but she went on to say that Hollywood's films had grown stagnant and boring to her. Though she said she appreciated her time working there, she wanted to try new, different techniques (hence starring in Italian neorealist films, working on stage, and acting under directors like Ingmar Bergman). She was not afraid to chase after her artistic ideals and go outside the box regardless of what society had to say about it. From her first movie to her last she killed it. There's so much more to say about Bergman's career and life, but I've already written five million words so I'll stop at that.

One of the most incredible actors I've ever seen on film. Her facial expressions are so intricate and poignant that I cannot look away. I'm either ace or straight, but damn she made me question that.

SEVEN TIME OSCAR NOMINEE QUEEN. Girl also PULLED, having affairs with famously hot men Gary Cooper and Gregory Peck IN ADDITION to her three marriages...sexy

She has a very natural beauty to her, and she's from Sweden!

She left Hollywood and only became more beautiful. You could drown in her eyes. She can look innocent AND like she's seen it all. She is effortlessly elegant. She's played Joan of Arc (automatically hot) AND was in the movie that coined gaslight as a term. And where would we be without that!

She was known for being a breath of fresh air on the movie scene at the time with her windswept hair, dreamy smile and soulful eyes. I have loved her in every movie I have seen her in - she was just magnetic!

Where do I even start. There's a neighborly quality to this beautiful, talented actress that makes her hotness one of a kind and her looks impossible to forget

With a career spanning five decades, Bergman is often regarded as one of the most influential screen figures in cinematic history. Known for her naturally luminous beauty, Bergman spoke five languages – Swedish, English, German, Italian and French – and acted in each.

She's hot, don't get me wrong, but I've always found her very approachable, like she could easily be a member of my friend group

Where do I even begin with Ingrid Bergman? I fell in love with her with her astounding performance in the 1956 version of Anastasia -- the best Anastasia movie in large part due to her wonderful and touching performance. She's got this amazing, fascinating intensity to her in whatever role she's in. She commits 100%, and she's got this light in whatever she's in that's stunning. She's utterly convincing no matter what she plays, from an amnesiac possible lost princess, from a nun, from a woman taking her revenge on the town that wronged her, to light romantic comedy. She's never missed in any role I've seen her in! Also she became quite the MILF.

Lauren Bacall:

"She is soooo neat. And hot. And everything. That one scene in To Have and Have Not where she says "you know how to whistle don't you? You just put your lips together and blow" altered my brain chemistry during media archaeology class and here we are."

"The VOICE, the SLINK, the EYES. Woof."

"Lauren Bacall was a major lesbian awakening for me. Every picture of her makes it look like she’s about to destroy you physically and emotionally (why is that so hot, I may need help). She had incredible long running chemistry with her husband, Humphrey Bogart, but was an absolute star in her own right. I’ll never be over my crush on her."

"She's got that confident, no-nonsense air about her. She's a boss babe who knows what she wants and gets it DONE. Staunch liberal Democrat her whole life. Campaigned for RFK. From Wikipedia: "In a 2005 interview with Larry King, Bacall described herself as "anti-Republican... A liberal. The L-word". She added that "being a liberal is the best thing on Earth you can be. You are welcoming to everyone when you're a liberal. You do not have a small mind."" Beautiful hair. Beautiful eyes. Beautiful lips. She's just beauty. LISTEN TO HER VOICE. TELL ME THAT'S NOT THE STUFF THAT DREAMS ARE MADE OF."

[ironunderstands]

All of Aventio’s implications that I can remember because someone has to compile them 

Massive disclaimer: the purpose of this slideshow is not to prove that Aventio is canon (even if I personally think it is), but rather to demonstrate the relationship these two have in canon, as well as disprove the misconception that they hate one another, because no, they absolutely do not. This list is also in no particular order so expect a lot of jumping around in the story. I hope you enjoy reading! 

Dr. Ratio added gambling to his update for the Simulated universe, and said a certain gambler would enjoy it, despite Ratio’s known dislike of gambling. 

He put his all into carrying out Aventurine’s betrayal plan, and Aventurine trusted him to execute it correctly, despite the plan/going to Penacony having no obvious gain on Ratio’s end.

Dr. Ratio gave Aventurine this note urging him to keep on living despite the pains of his past and the agony of the present, wishing a man who is already known for his luck the best of it, something which helps Aventurine survive the manifestation of IX. I am insane about this note and could yap on and on about it, but I will spare you the delusions for now haha. 

Dr. Ratio wears his headpiece around those he finds to be unintelligent and not worth his time, but he has never once on screen worn it around Aventurine, signaling that he finds the man to be both intelligent and worthy of his attention. 

Aventurine doubts his own intelligence and worth in his voiceline about Dr. Ratio, believing that the scholar doesn’t care for him. However, in Ratio’s voiceline about Aventurine, he commends Aventurine for his competence and skill, pointing out that his success is not in-fact just due to his luck, and if he keeps doubting himself he will meet the fate of those praying on his downfall.

Aventurine is also the only person to actually have voicelines about Dr. Ratio so far, despite Ratio having interacted with many others, meaning he’s the closest in canon to Aventurine, seeing that he’s the only one who talks about him. (Hopefully Screwllum has a line on Ratio when he comes out bc I am starving for Ratio content lmao). 

Aventurine’s first eidolon name is Prisoner’s Dilemma, which refers to a game theory in which two people can only achieve the best outcome of their situation if they put their faith one another while being unable to communicate/physically separated, and it mirrors the dynamic Ratio and Aventurine had on Penacony while acting out the betrayal plan. Which could mean nothing. 

His 6th eidolon name is Stag Hunt Game, which refers to another game theory based on trust, and is again, reminiscent of Ratio and Aventurine’s plan. Basically, they trust each other a hell of a lot, to the point where his eidolons are named after similar games of trust, which is no accident, as well, there’s countless game theories, and hoyo went with the ones specifically centered around trust between two people. For example his E4 is another one of those theories, but has nothing to do with trust, so they specifically selected his first and last eidolon to be about it, interesting.

The name of the 2.1 quest that just involves Ratio and Aventurine is Double Indemnity, which not only refers to the legal matter but also a famous romance and thriller movie in the 1950s by the same name. Notably, it shares a lot of plot points with that of the 2.1 quest as a whole, and the fmc is always portrayed as blond, just like Aventurine. 

There is also a scene within Double Indemnity that shares a lot of parallels between itself and the Final Victor lightcone. However in the movie scene she is holding the gun, whereas in the lightcone Ratio is, even if Aventurine is holding it to his chest.

Also if you want a more in depth analysis on how this movie relates to them, this person made a great one on tumblr :@anominous-user. (without the period, also it’s long as hell though be warned). 

You receive the track “Spellbound” after completing the Double Indemnity mission.

It is also the name of a 1945 film by Alfred Hitchcock, which is a Thriller, Noir and you guessed it, features romance as a major part of the plot. Its story also seems to have parallels to Aventio’s, but I’m not gonna get into that for now.

Notably, spellbound also means to hold the complete attention of someone, which is more often than not romantic, as only people you love/admire can captivate you like that. 

The bathtub couch Aventurine gets Ratio during his demo (and is the only time the seating ever changes in demos) is reminiscent of the bathtub couch from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and you guessed it, its another romance.

He constantly flirts with Ratio in the pinball section of the Double Indemnity trailer, even going so far as to a) have the “Doctor you’re huge” line become a massive meme in the community b) he literally says the view is breathtaking when the only view is the giant Ratio he’s staring at. Honestly this entire section is so chock full of romance tropes (seriously what writer let their size difference kink into the story) that I have no idea how it passed censorship.

Aventurine also flirts with Ratio in the 2.0 scene by asking where his alabaster head is, which means he’s seen him wear it before. However, even when Dr. Ratio is acting, supposedly yelling at Aventurine for being a useless fool, he doesn’t wear the mask meaning he doesn’t truly feel that way.

They also have designated nicknames for one another, that are exclusive to them only. Dr. Ratio only ever calls Aventurine “gambler” while in his presence, and although Aventurine calls him Ratio sometimes, he often refers to Ratio as Doc/Doctor (Professor too in the CN) when talking to him. What’s interesting is that nobody else seems to refer to either of them with these names, meaning they made them for one another.

Despite the fact that throughout Penacony, Dr. Ratio’s job is to sell the betrayal plan, he still apologizes to Aventurine in the 2.0 argument scene, and looks away during Aventurine’s sentencing presumably out of guilt/to not break his poker face when the other looks at him. He also not so kindly tells Sunday to visit a shrink (therapist), which should tell you how much his actions concern and upset Ratio.

He also breaks his act again to check in on Aventurine. Hmm. 

Anyways time for the Aventurine keeping up with starrail speedrun because OH LORD, I’m gonna number these by image so I don’t exceed the count LMAOO. The first few are numbered by image, and the next are numbered by the columns of images, and I can clarify in the comments if you’re confused!

1) Owlbert calling them good friends (which Mr. Tsundere denies, although he says Aven isn’t awful to work with) 

2) PRAISE OWLBERT

3) This line is very significant because only 3% of Dr. Ratio’s students ever pass his classes, in which they become experts in their fields. So, if Aventurine earns a passing grade in Dr. Ratio’s book, that means he’s exceptional to him as almost nobody does. 

1) Ratio says his flashy outfits just make his job harder which ??? What do you mean by that sir do you not like seeing other people lay eyes on Aventurine serving cvnt? Why are you so worried about how his jobs go? Hmmm? Throughout the whole video he also keeps saying Aventurine shouldn’t take up fights in the first place, and the more logical thing to do would be to run away. Worried about our dear gambler Ratio?

2) How well do you know this man that you know his personal motto 😭 look genuinely idc if you leave this shipping them or not, how the hell are you gonna deny their friendship after this at the very least. 

Ok homoverse/j Anyways basically what’s going on here is that the little showcase of Aventurine’s kit ended and Ratio gave him a compliment. Owlbert says it seems like there is some mutual respect between them. Interesting, instead of denying it, Ratio asks, “What did he say about me?” implying that Ratio respects Aventurine, but he did not realize the other respected him back. 

1) Which causes Owlbert to spill this, which speaks for itself, Aventurine believes Ratio is the person who knows him best, so he invited him to be on the show. 

2) Which results in perhaps the greatest display of Ratio’s tsundereness to this day, also Owlberts face I can’t 

1) It seems Ratio didn’t think Aventurine knew him so well, but oh boy it gets better (worse for Ratio though LMAOO)

2) Caught your ass in 4k, also please just go and listen to this demo again I don’t think Ratio could sound more flustered if he tried. 

Apologies for the fuckass title card getting in the way no I don’t know how to remove it, but if you look closely in the first one, you can see a little sweat drop by Ratio’s face, which is again, another common trope with Tsundere’s when they get called out on their bs. “I really can’t tell what the deal is between you two,” me too Owlbert, me too.

Aventurine knows Ratio is in the council of Mundanites, information that is only a rumor to the rest of the galaxy, and Ratio trusts him with this information.

Acheron calls them friends, thank you Queen louder for the dumbasses in the back! Apparently there’s also a note somewhere in Penacony that talks about her, Argenti and of course Ratio being the ones to save Aventurine, so if I can find it, I’ll include it in the next part. 

Oh and don’t you think I’m done w this ridiculous lightcone for one second. I’m  well aware it’s a display of Aventurine’s su1c1dal tendencies, hell I was and still am the biggest supporter of that, however I also have eyes and yeah this fucking thing is really h0rny oh my god. “He provocatively looks at the man before him,” ok, could have picked any other wording but you picked that one 😭.

Also, a key detail of this lightcone that people miss is that it’s, well, a lightcone. A lightcone we get in 2.0 as soon as it drops, and since lightcones are canonically condensed memories, this happened way before the events of 2.0, and is likely how Aventurine convinced Ratio to join him jn the betrayal plan. 

Moreover, Aventurine says “remain amicable,” meaning this isn’t their first meeting, and him and Ratio had at least been talking to one another for some time before this, which could mean their friendship/partnership/whatever the hell this is has dated back to perhaps even prior to 1.6 when we meet Ratio for the first time, but ultimately that’s just speculation. 

Lastly, for this mini lightcone rant: the animated version of it. Oh lord. 1) Camden and Jordan put their all into it istg 😭 2) Ratio pulls the gun back but Aventurine stops him, meaning that a) Ratio didn’t want him to get hurt, but he b) accepted Aventurine’s provocation, 3) Aventurine LEANS CLOSER to him while teasing him with his whole “why not doctor~,” sh1t and 4) if you look closely at both the animated and still versions of it, there’s a tiny spark of light in Aventurine’s normally dead eyes, which is just, yeah. 

Ratios party voiceline for Aventurine. This is a complicated one because it is meant to be b1tchy in both languages (this is a tumblr post on it by @devxoid which goes over the nuance surrounding it. The TLDR is: directly translated, it means “take care of yourself, gambler, I need not your worry/concern,” but its actual meaning is far closer to the “fuck off” vibes in the CN. However, two this complicate this, 1) he sounds far calmer/neutral in the CN and 2) Ratio is the biggest goddamn tsundere on this planet, so even if he sounds mean, he does genuinely want Aventurine to take care of himself, as Ratio’s tried and true method of getting people to better themselves is by being rude to them, so it’s actually fairly in character, it’s just I think the way the line was directed in EN was a bit too harsh and threw some people off 

Finally, here’s some more silly ones that don’t really mean anything on their own until you put them into the context of everything else:

Their status as package deal do not seperate in both the data bank and the profile pictures is extremely funny because they have no reason to be next to each other like that, they just are.

Their kits are also designed to synergize perfectly with one another, and in the livestream Ratio was put in the team to demonstrate Aventurine’s kit because well, they are made to work together. Aventurine is by far Dr. Ratio’s best sustain unit due to the debuffs he provides (alongside everything else) which only gets better with eidolons + his signature lightcone, and if you have ever played Ratio you know how much he likes debuffs. As for Aventurine, his arguably  best team is the FUA one with Robin, Topaz and well, Ratio, who is the main dps of the team. Honestly besides trying to zero cycle MOC there is no reason as to why you would run Ratio with any other support unit if you have Aventurine. 

I hope you enjoyed reading! Also, this is absolutely not everything, just all the stuff that’s easy to point out, and I’m not even getting into an actual analysis of the plot and how that demonstrates their relationship. Moreover, I don’t expect you to leave this shipping them if you don’t already like them, but I at least want to demonstrate that they are without a doubt close friends in canon, and there’s no denying it. I definitely missed some so feel free to point out more, as I might make a part two, as these are just all the ones off the top of my head. Continually, for the people who like Aventio, hopefully this serves as some sort of guidebook/reference to their implications/interactions, and if you have any moots who love this ship, I’d recommend tagging them in this bc I think they would love it! Have a good day :D

[thexsilentxwordsmith]

https://twitter.com/sluttywh0r3/status/1738661113154220340?t=VYLoAeMTbPq_UQ-a7lMuVA&s=19

You were both so horny but you just ran out of your birth control and didn't have any condoms so Simon said he'd pull out only to have you riding him and refusing to get off of him and begging him to cum inside you

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

READ IT HERE

9-1-1, yes hello? There is an attempted murder in progress. Yes, it is on my sanity, thank you.

Seriously, you guys are trying to kill me, right? Because there is no way in hell I am supposed to read that and stay sane. I'm gonna have to take a minute just to get through the rest of this post after the flood of images that just entered by brain.

But damn if it ain't a pretty scenario to think about. I am mean come on, just thinking about you and Simon being so fucking out of your minds horny for each other that you are willing to risk everything is hot as hell. Just him heavy breathing in your ear, telling you how good he wants to make you feel, the vibration from his voice making your clit throb as his lips leave trails of tingles along the side of your neck from the warmth of his lips.

Just the feeling of you under his fingertips has him panting as he tries to shove his hands in your pants, in your shirt, or both if he's lucky. He needs to make you come, it's the only thing he cares about in that moment; he needs to know that he has the power to make you fall apart and it consumes him until it is agony.

Probably wouldn't even make it to the god damn bed before he is ripping off your clothes as fast as those thick fingers can get into them and then immediately throwing your legs on his shoulders and thrusting inside you the second he can; he'd just drag you onto the floor with him and spread your thighs wide. That massive, virile man isn't going be able to create anything more than a few coherent words before it's all grunts like an animal in heat.

"We'll be careful. Com' on, sweetheart...Mmmm fuck... swear I'll fuckin' pull out. Just need ta be inside ya."

(I can feel the flames licking at me right now just for thinking about this lol).

Then you end up on top and Simon is on cloud fucking nine watching you completely lose your mind at how good it feels that the minute you start begging him to come inside you, that promise he made to you about pulling out flies out the fucking window without a second thought. You pleading with him to fill you up is going to awaken that feral part of his brain that he will not be able to control and it's gonna be all over.

"Christ, can't say no to ya ever, pretty girl. Ya want it inside ya, that's what your gonna fuckin' get."

He'd be so out of it, high off the feeling of you riding him into oblivion that he will not even fight you on it. He isn't even going to hesitate to keep going all the way until you both are a whole god damn mess and you are leaking his cum. Shit he'd make sure you got everything you want by keeping your hips locked together with his tight grip as he begins to slam up into you harder and harder, loudly grunting from the strain through that point of no return. The risk would be 100% worth it at that point.

And you'd be so gone with his cock shoved so far in you that your brain cannot even create a single thought other than to come on it. So what if this hot as hell romp leads to an oopsie; he'd make a great dad, right?

Don't worry, he's thinking the same thing and he's fine with it.

"Jus' don't fuckin' stop."

Give me a bit to write this all out cause I really really REALLY need this to be a full fledged fic.

[applejuicebegood]

Could you possibly write some more headcanons for how Jason Todd would slowly warm up to affection? I know you mentioned it briefly in a previous post if I'm remembering correctly but I just need more on him possibly not even notices how his behavior around reader begins to change!!!! (This is all prior to a relationship)

A/N: Mmmmm very sweet indeed, I love writing for this idiot sm. Thank you so much for requesting dude! I really hope that you like it!!

Masterlist

He first thought of it as impossible that someone as soft and as sweet as you could ever fit into his life of grit, violence and blood. He knew you as an opposite - a total contrast to the rough edges that fitted his body and world. But love is stubborn, and so were you.

The first major change you unintentionally enacted was the bettering of his sleeping habits. After your fifth date, you asked if he had been sleeping enough and if everything was ok. Your concern bubbling over at the sight of his lush green eyes now sunken in by a surrounding deep purple. His shoulders were slumped forward and his steps stumbled as you walked next to him down the library shelves. He perked up, the sweet trill of your voice drawing him out from his drowsy state. He was used to pulling all-nighters, his job practically required it. But it was the first time he felt guilty about it. He laughed it off, assuring you that he just couldn't sleep the other night.

Only when he clicked his apartment door close after walking you home, did he reflect on how little he actually slept in general. And never wanting to see that fearful empathy in your eyes again, he started sleeping at least more than an hour each day. It took time to fight back the creeping guilt of supposedly neglecting his duties in protecting Gotham but he would rather revel in that guilt then make you worry about him.

Once you two started officially dating, the second major change was his discovering of his love of your touch. The quickness of your shoulders bumping or you playfully hitting his arm in a fit of laughter was the purest form of electricity and warmth burrowing into his skin and settling into his bones. Your gentleness was so foreign to him. His skin throbbing in bruises or his muscles stinging in agony was familiar. The gentle brush of your warm hand over the side of his face, was not.

It took time for him to grow comfortable with your physical affection - but when he did, god, it was like discovering a limitless source of vitality, all wrapped up in the most flawlessly beautiful of persons. He longed for the closeness of your skin if he was gone for long missions. He would cry into the circle of your arms, all of his unexpressed gratitude and love for you boiling over in hiccuped sobs.

He leans into your touch like a cat leans into ear scratches. He'll nuzzle his cold cheeks into the softness of your palms as you brush his tangled black locks back up over his forehead. He squeezes your hand to silently signal when you both need to cross a street or just to remind him that your still by his side.

From you he learned how easy it was to smile at the world. You reintroduced him back into the reality of natural goodness existing around him. This translated back into his Red-Hooding, of now seeing a city worth protecting. Not just because your in it, but because he now knows of the beauty and the laughter it holds. Within the graffitied concrete walls and stretches of hidden art galleries and grassroots community centres. Of the small queer clubs and community bookstores both of you would frequent. He learned to fall in love with Gotham because he fell in love with you.

Before going public with your relationship to his family, the sudden shift in his stern behaviour was glaring. Jason was gentler and actually trying, although awkwardly, to deepen his connection to his little brothers and sisters. You said that he was going to be stuck with them anyway, so he should learn to see them as the family he always deserved to have. Tim and Duke tease him, egging him on to explain why he decided to show up with a Tupperware of hand-baked velvet cookies for Steph and Cass (no, he didn't let Tim and Duke have any). He could throw a pillow at them and chase them through the manor, telling them to shut their faces, but nothing could distract anybody from the fact that someone was bringing back a Jason both Dick and Bruce thought they had buried.

[sytoran]

𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐒 || mdg pt. 5

timelines and lifelines have torn you and natasha apart, but the two of you are bound by the child you have created. though subjected to earth, loki, god of mischief, dangles the possibility of a future with natasha by making you a god.

pairing: goddess!natasha x mortal!reader (not for long)

note: this is the 5th installment to the goddess!nat universe, as per the 4k celebration! please read the other parts first if you haven't already. this part contains depictions of violence. this series is 18+ only.

word count: 1.8k

series m.list | main m.list | AO3

Previously…

Your relationship with the Goddess of Lust, Natasha Romanoff, comes to a screeching halt. Torn apart by timelines and lifelines, you’re not coping well, and neither is Natasha — especially when she finds out she’s pregnant with your child.

On the other side of the universe, Loki, God of Mischief, breaks into your apartment to offer you a deal. Worse still, he eats your leftover pizza.

Now…

When you come back to consciousness, you feel like you’re floating. Not in the whimsical, psychedelic cocaine-induced way, but in the Help-I’m-Physically-Suspended-In-The-Air way. 

And it is true, much to your demise, because despite the fruitful hours of work spent in the gym, your arms and back can’t quite handle the excruciating pain of being strung taut like a rope.

Against the will of every screaming cell in your existence for you to fall the fuck back asleep, you forcefully sit up and open your eyes.

It takes about two seconds for the headache-worthy hangover to sink in, and three seconds for you to regret every godforsaken decision you had made the night prior.

Last night- oh, fuck. Last Friday night. 

(No, this isn’t going to entail a radio pop song with a curly black-haired Katy Perry, because the only curly black-haired one in this story is the God of Mischief himself. Both equally as sassy, but expounding on that would fracture the entirety of the space-time continuum.)

“Oh, you’re awake.” 

Speaking of the devil (quite literally), Loki forces you to bring your blurry gaze up to the cocky expression painting his angular face.

“Fuck you,” you spit, dry and hoarse, memories surging through your teetering consciousness. All you were aware of was the mother of your problems was the man himself.

Now, you were suspended like a puppet in your very own living room, strings of golden magic encircling your body, keeping you stretched to the edge of insurmountable agony.

“Funny,” Loki says dryly, eyes raking over your pathetic form. “That’s exactly what you said last night that put you in this position.”

You would’ve laughed, truly, if not for the ache in your ribs and your back and your– you get the point. “You offered me a proposition,” you comment, licking your cracked lips with distaste. 

“And you said ‘fuck you’ and threw up three bottles worth of alcohol on my ridiculously expensive snake-scaled shoes before promptly passing out from your hissy fit of a heartbreak.”

“Deserved.”

“I will hang you upside down.”

You roll your eyes – however much you can roll them in this position. “You gave me an offer. That means that I had a say in this, and I certainly did not consent to take part in this BDSM-worthy fantasy of yours.”

Loki scoffs at this, shifting in his seat. Your seat, actually, his black robes draped over your armchair like it belonged to him. 

“My sex life is none of your business, and more than often entails men,” Loki begins, putting a finger up. “The only reason I’m taking interest in a hopelessly lovesick woman-lover is because you have something that I want.”

You exhale roughly, lungs and ribs screaming in protest. You weren’t of a godly status by any means, but based on his identity and the fact that a God was lurking around Earth, you were competent enough to figure out what he wanted.

“You wanna get back to the land of the Gods,” you state, eyes narrowing in seriousness. “Like me, you’ve done some shit that made SHIELD put a target on your back. Except it’s ten times worse, considering you’re a God. That’s why you’re here. What you want is connections, because I have – I had – a relationship with Natasha Romanoff.”

Natasha.

It pains you, to even put it in the past tense, that what you had with Natasha would only ever be history.

“Oh wow,” Loki responds, acting shocked. “There’s actually more to you than this himbo attitude you exude.”

You don’t give him the pleasure of a response to his provoking, despite your incessant need to sucker-punch that face of his. But uncovering his plan has that layer of composure slipping, for a second, and you delight in it for what it’s worth.

"Put me down first," you say instead through gritted teeth, looking up with a ferocious glint in your eyes.

"Say yes first," Loki answers promptly, folding his arms over his chest with a self-satisfied grin.

"Put me down and or I won't consider your absurd request," you try again, a wracking cough making your stomach lurch in pain.

"Funny you think you're in a position of power," the arrogant god taunts. "Who's to say I won't torture you to the brink of death until I get what I want?"

"...Who's to say I'd eventually break?" you say finally, narrowing your gaze. You sure as hell were scared as fuck, but you had to survive. "Threats only work on people who've got something to lose. I'm forbidden from ever seeing the love of my life again – I've got nothing to lose, y'know? No amount of torture will get you what you want."

Your little speech of sorts, delivered with an unwavering tone despite the pain coursing through your body, plays out perfectly. Loki's gaze is unreadable as he contemplates upon your counter-proposition.

Unceremoniously, you're dropped to the ground, hitting reality with a grunt of pain. “Shit,” you wheeze, clutching at your ribs with sore wrists. “Warn a girl, man.”

Loki waves you off dismissively. “The pain won’t matter anymore.”

“Wait,” you struggle to say, reaching out to nothingness as the man closes his eyes and raises his hands to the lands you once roamed.

It’s only then that you realise you’re surrounded by candles, so many candles. You’re in the center of some kind of ritual board, and what you assume are ‘offerings’ circle you.

From skulls to black flames, you know something is wrong. Very wrong. Loki is muttering incantations under his breath, a language beyond your human tongue, and the pressure in your room rises to an extent that forces you downwards.

“What,” you ask, exhaling roughly against your cracked ribs. “What kind of God am I going to become?”

Your question goes unanswered, lost in the swirling black flames that surround you. Loki’s eyes open again, and this time they are completely black. He begins a chant, crafted from an inhuman tongue, a language you’d never heard before.

That’s when the pain starts.

You scream, brain waves throbbing, a loud ringing sound echoing in your ears. Psychedelia takes over your conscience, producing images all around you, dark and distorted and everything you thought you’d buried.

“ибяѓюгэю юдякиэҁ, эиѫч ҩ рэд.”

Unbridled darkness, enemy of peace.

Natasha’s face is at the forefront of your mind, unblemished and happy and everything you’d ever wanted. You reach out, spluttering and breathless, trying to grasp that wistful memory like it’d materialize in front of you, like she could ever be yours.

“бцэт юҩщи ҩцядрҩи дю ғдг ҩця ҩиэҁ.”

Put down your weapons and fall to your knees.

Her face gets shattered into smithereens, scattered throughout the dark swirls of your mind, overtaken by shadows. Horrifying screams and flashes of a graveyard overwhelm you, and you yell through the misery for the love of your life.

“тҩ фэн тнэ юэҁѓяэ ҩғ џэиəэдисэ lə'”

To quench the desires of vengeance and rage.

Fury slugs through you, as you crawl away from cold hands that pull you back. “No!” You yell, but your voice is not yours anymore. The only thing to describe what you feel is chaos, darkness creeping in from the shadows, a slithering worm into your ear, a rotting carcass and the stench of carrion.

“ҩҁэ бҩиэҁ сдҁт ҩғ ҁсчнэҁ дию бдюэҁ.”

To see bones cast of scythes and blades.

The world snaps from reality, and you get flung into a different dimension. This place you’re trapped in is unfamiliar. You’re standing on a pile of dead human bodies, and there are ghouls and demons cheering your name. Blackness seeps through your veins, infiltrating your mindwires. 

“Revenge,” you spit, a devilish noise, and the cheers rise again.

You scream, as black wings tear through your back, ripping your collared shirt and spreading towards the sky. You launch from the depths of whatever hellhole that may have been, an inhuman screech echoing around the void, soaring towards the heavens in search of the one you’d lost.

“ҩѫэҩя, гдск-щѓəэю юэџѓг, эт ндҁ иғцяг”

Come forth, black-winged devil, let chaos unfurl

Upon descending on holy ground, unfamiliar faces intrude into your mind, prominent and unmistaken. Backlogged information begs its worth — God of Thunder. Goddess of Magic. God of Science. God of Justice. 

Then one word rings above all, high and mighty, and the darkness of your mind clears to reveal the people that had taken your Natasha away.

SHIELD.

“энҩгю яҩѫ нэг, ҩю ҩғнэ Циюэящҩягю.”

Behold from hell, Ruler of the Underworld.

Reality drives into your side like a thousand semi-trucks, bright and flashing, and then you’re back in your living room. You stay on the ground, all-fours, spluttering and gasping for air. 

Natasha.

Black wings flap behind you, resplendent and marvelous. Those had been real.

Arising from the ground, gone is the fear in your eyes. No more shreds of hope. No more sense of justice. Your blackened eyes burn red, searching for Loki. He stands in the corner of the room, and he seems so much smaller now, compared to you and your bloodlust.

“She was mine,” you growl, dangerously, fearsome and inhuman.

“She is yours,” The God of Mischief answers, marveling at his creation, for there was nothing that could stop you now.

***

“Rockabye baby on the treetop,” Natasha sings softly, a hand gently caressing the swell of her stomach. Colours sweep into galaxies as nightfall arrives, cloaking her land in gentle beauty.

“When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.” As if on cue, the wind gets a little chillier. Worry clouds Natasha’s face, edging in on her safe haven.

“When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.” A holographic image of The God of Justice materializes before her eyes. It meant that it was an urgent message, from one God to the next.

“The SHIELD base is being attacked by an unknown force. We’re in grave danger,” Steve says, urgent and frantic. Screams and chaos can be heard in the background, and the God barely ducks a crashing marble pillar.

Natasha almost scoffs and switches off the image. The Gods had ignored her very existence ever since they had banished you, which was convenient in hiding her pregnancy, but at the same time rather annoying, now that they were begging for help.

That is, until Steve persisted further. “Natasha. This perpetrator has power beyond measure, dark power. It could even exceed Loki’s.”

“......What does this harbinger of hell want?” Natasha asks, steely eyes surveying her homeland.

“Natasha,” Steve repeats, weary eyes hooded with anxiety. “They’re looking for you.”

Down will come baby, cradle and fall.

so that happened.... any thoughts about our new and improved y/n, ruler of the underworld?? loki rlly stirred up a lot of shit huh

reblog or no y/n x natasha reunion

series m.list | main m.list | AO3

[luveline]

Hii

Whenever you have time could you please do more single dad!Spencer. It’s just too cute and it really warms my heart how you write it.

tysm ♡ dad!spencer and his daughter amanda find their reunion unexpectedly interrupted when you need a place to stay the night. fem!reader, 3.4k

Spencer doesn't mind how tactile Amanda is. If anything, he loves it, content to have her sitting in his lap or on his hip, anywhere he goes and anywhere she wants to be. He tries to get in as much affectionate time with her as he can when he's home to make up for his days away. 

He doesn't like missing her, but he loves coming home. Amy sits on his stomach while Spencer lays on the couch, using his thighs as a backboard while they both fail to pay attention to the kids cartoons on their TV. 

"Were you good for Mrs. Gomorrah?" he asks, though he knows she was. He had to live through the agony that was teaching Mrs. Gomorrah how to text on a cell phone he bought for her years ago, but it was worth it to get those incremental updates that he relies on every day to get to the next without catching a flight home.

Amy had pizza 

Amy misses you. She said she is kissing you through my phone

Wants a new dress for school party tonight, emergency money OK to use? said she loves you 

Aaskkk k k o 

Sorry, accidentally texted you, Amanda made dinner tonight [photo]

The text messages help being far away feel less like torture. Spencer loves his job but he wonders if he should love it less, sometimes, when Mrs. Gomorrah remembers how to send photos, or when he can make it back to the hotel before bed time and call Amy.

But here she is in the flesh. Spencer doesn't worry about work when she's holding his hand. 

"I was good," she confirms, wiping hair from her face with a blue sleeve. She's in her pyjamas at three thirty. Spencer's in his matching set, blue long sleeve t-shirts with two dogs —a grown up and a puppy, seemingly a dad dog and his daughter— on the shirt and miniature dogs on the pants. "Promise. We did fruit kebabs last night." 

Spencer saw photos, but he still says, "Yeah? What fruits did you have? You know, strawberries will be extra yummy again soon because they're back in season." 

"We had strawberries, and bananas, and the green one, kiwi." She puts one of her feet up on his chest. He makes wide eyes at it to hear her giggle. "And with chocolate and maple syrup, it was really yummy." 

"We should make Tanghulu." 

This is a new word for Amy. "Tanghulu?" 

"It started with a berry called Chinese hawthorn, but now people use lots of different fruits. You make a fruit kebab, but instead of chocolate, you dip the fruit into hot sugar and it goes hard as it cools like rock candy, and you have good strong teeth, so you could eat it no problem." 

"It turns the fruit into candy?" she asks, wiggling her toes. 

"Kind of." Spencer covers her foot with his hand unthinkingly. She looks tired already though it's only the afternoon. She gets very tired when Spencer comes home, like she'd been waiting. "Do you want to have a nap with me, sweetpea?" 

"No, I don't think so."

Spencer made a mistake when she was younger. He thought leaving while she was sleeping would make it easier to say goodbye. It was for him, but Amy didn't sleep or eat right for days, and Spencer had to come home before the case was over to stop her from making herself sick. They've worked on it, Spencer never ever leaves without saying goodbye, but she still gets scared to sleep when they're together sometimes. 

He ushers her forward. "Come here," he says, "quick, give me a hug." She flops forward and Spencer arranges her into a cuddle, hand against her hair, his nose pressed to her forehead. "I missed you." 

"Missed you more," she says. 

"Not true. I missed you so much." 

"Don't go away again for a day," she says. 

"I'm staying home for a whole week. Maybe longer, okay? But I promise you, seven whole days no matter what." And he means it. The only thing that could change his mind is a mass murder situation, but otherwise, they'll have to make it work without him. He hates to say that kind of thing, but he has to say it, because Amy is his first priority. 

She relaxes into his arms. "Okay." 

His phone rings, because of course it does. Amy frowns her displeasure with tears shining silver in her eyes. Spencer shakes his head at her, "I'm not going, Ames. I promised. I won't answer anybody, this week is just going to be me and you." 

She glares at the phone and rests her chubby cheek on his chest. Spencer wonders if it's uncomfortable considering his lack of padding and sits up with an arm behind her seatbelting her to his front. "Let's go watch TV in bed." 

Her hands grab at the back of his shirt. "Bring your phone, dad," she says. 

Spencer kisses the side of her head. "No, I told you already, I'm not going." 

"What if Mrs. Gomorrah wants to come for dinner?" she asks, her voice smaller, sleepy. She rubs her face into his front. 

It's a good point. Spencer picks up his phone to check if it was her and frowns at the missed call. It's you. You've texted him too. 

"It's Y/N," he says. 

Amy knows you because whenever he's had to bring her with him (not often, but occasionally on regular work days when there's school reset days), you're very, very kind to her. You're not sure of yourself around kids but it doesn't matter, you let Amy sit with you if she wants to and you always talk to her with care, offer her snacks, anything that you can share. 

It's why he calls you back. That, and you're a nice friend. 

— 

You're feeling about as ashamed and sheepish as a girl can be as you take the elevator up to Spencer's floor. You don't want to impose on anybody, but you'd rather have died than ask Hotch, JJ's taking a vacation in Santa Monica, Penelope's on a conference with Kevin, Emily chose to use her week on an undisclosed trip, and Morgan was similarly off the radar. 

And you know Spencer has Amanda, you know they've been apart for longer than they've been together this month, and you hate interrupting their time together, but… you couldn't stay home no matter how badly you wanted to. Stupid landlord. Stupid cockroaches and stupid fumigation tents.

You carry your go bag with nothing but a week's worth of dirty clothes and your wallet. Your phone is about to die and you'd really wanted, more than anything, to crawl into bed and sleep the daytime away. 

You've never been to Spencer's apartment despite knowing him well, and liking him more. You knock on the door, apartment 305B. You're dead on your feet at this point, exhausted by the jet ride home, the commute to your apartment, the subsequent ten minutes spent crying on the sidewalk, and the next half hour debating if you could bother Spencer. Maybe you should've got a hotel, but it was already getting late and you just needed something familiar. Selfishly, you needed someone you knew after such a shitty case. 

"Hello," Spencer says, opening the door with a familiar girl held in his arms, "don't mind my jacket." 

Amy's clearly sleeping, tiny snores echoing from near his neck. It's cute, but it makes you feel much worse. "I'm sorry–" 

He doesn't let you apologise, "Are you kidding? What were you gonna do? We're excited to have you." He's kind of talking to you like Amy's still awake, enthusiastic whisper-shouting as he pulls you inside. 

"It's just for tonight, I promise. They said I'll be able to  back in by evening tomorrow," you say, holding your bag to your chest. You blink at him as you follow him to the kitchen. "Are you wearing matching pyjamas?" 

"You came over last minute!" he defends with a laugh. 

Spencer opens his hand for your bag and puts it behind a steaming bowl of soup. "Oh, were you guys eating dinner?" you ask. 

"No, that's for you. I'm gonna put Amy in bed and then I can do your laundry. Did you need a hug?" 

"What?" 

Spencer smiles at you. "I thought maybe you're having a bad day." He offers his empty arm and you don't know how to say no, don't want to, careful not to bump into Amy as you curl your arm behind his back. "We're happy to have you. You could stay all week and that would be fine. Did they really give you no warning?" 

"I called my landlord and he laughed and then kind of got quiet. I think he forgets that I live there." 

Spencer pulls away and puts a hand on Amy's back. She's very slight like Spencer but if she were any older he'd struggle to carry her for as long as he has. You can see the fatigue trembling in his left arm. "It's not legal for him to leave you with nowhere to stay, and without any notice. You could ask Hotch–" 

"It's okay." You gesture to Amy's face. "She's getting so big." 

"And heavy. Be back in a few. Eat on the couch if you want to." 

You wouldn't. Spencer takes Amy into one room off of the main room, and then comes back to grab your laundry before disappearing into another. His apartment is a fun but odd layout, the door leading into a living room slash kitchen with a dining table, then opening out left and right, bedrooms toward the back of the apartment and a bathroom behind. It reminds you of a flower, that central hub of life and the petals curling outward. 

You pick up your spoon cautiously. He definitely said the food was for you, but it's so strange to be greeted with a meal, you can't remember the last time someone made sure you had something to eat. 

Spencer doesn't attract your attention until he's pulling up a chair next to you with two glasses set on the table. "I put your pyjamas on quick wash. And your, uh, your grey bag." 

Your grey bag is a little net bag full of delicates. You try to be adult about it, but it's so super awkward that you end up laughing aloud, "Oh, shit, I'm sorry." 

"Don't be. It doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you. I just put the entire bag in, like, intact." 

You believe that, but you infer from the tightness of his voice that he's worried you'll think he's weird. Honestly, he's just nice, even if it's awkward. Everybody wears underwear. "That's what it's for," you say. 

"Do you think they make those in a bigger size? Amy's vests get tangled sometimes because the straps are skinny, that would be useful." 

"I'm sure they do," you say, toying with your spoon. "I… really don't know how to say thank you. I know we're friends, but it's different. To let me stay."

"When I was a kid I didn't have many friends. By high school I didn't have one. So I never got to have sleepovers until Amanda. And she's my best friend, but she's six, so…" 

You both laugh suddenly, beaming at one another in your wrinkled, mismatched clothes. 

You finish your meal through lighthearted conversation. Spencer takes your dish for the sink and you both move to the couch to watch TV. 

Clifford the Big Red Dog plays on mute. "I know you're thrilled to watch something this intellectually tantalising, but maybe we should watch a movie. There's a guide under the cushion," Spencer says. 

You dig for the guide but wherever he thinks it is, it isn't. 

"Doesn't matter. Mrs. Gomorrah will have one, I'll take her some dinner at the same time. Would you keep your ear on Amy? She might wake up."

He makes a tray for Mrs. Gomorrah, a neighbour and good friend of his. You've met her once when she brought Amy into the office, an Italian-American woman who's black and silver hair bounced when she talked. Beside his mother living in a sanitarium in Nevada, and his small daughter, Mrs. Gomorrah is Spencer's only family. He treats her accordingly. 

The washing machine starts to beep a few minutes after he's left. You spring from the couch and track down his washer and dryer, transferring your damp wash into the dryer and frowning at the machine's strange settings.

"Daddy?" a small voice calls. Sharper, unhappy, "Daddy?" 

"Amy!" you say, moving from your crouch to stand in the doorway. "Hi, honey! Your dad just went to give Mrs. Gomorrah some dinner." 

Amy squints at you. "Miss Y/N?" 

"Hi," you say tentatively. "My house is kind of broken for a bit and I asked your dad if I can stay the night." You bend to meet her eyes properly. "Would that be okay with you?" 

"Yeah," she says, smiling. "Yeah, please stay. Daddy's friends never come over." 

"Did you need something, honey? I can help." 

"No… You're sure he's at Mrs. Gomorrah's?" 

"Definitely one hundred percent positive. He can't go to work without me, can he?" 

Amy shrugs little shoulders. "I guess not." 

You can't help laughing at her. With the sound of the dryer bumping behind you, you meet Amy near the dining table and touch her shoulder gently to prompt her toward the couch. She jumps up onto the seat with the most cushions and you sit beside her. You and Spencer never managed to pick a movie, so the kids channel still plays on mute. 

"How do you turn it up?" you ask, offering her the remote hopelessly. 

Amy sidles against your side and points. You click the small white speaker button, greeted by the barks of another episode of Clifford. 

"Is this one okay?" you ask. 

"I love Clifford."

It can't be two minutes before she rests her head against your arm, her hand locking over the crook of your elbow. 

You're not sure what to do. She's Spencer's kid, so she probably does. "Do you want a cuddle?" you ask her. You'd be happy to give her one, but you don't know what's okay with her. 

"Please." 

You hang your arm across her shoulders and behind her back, stroking a tentative and short line into her arm, just once. "These are nice pyjamas, Amy. I saw your dad has the same ones." They're soft under your arm. Her hair brushes your wrist as she turns her head to crinkle her nose at you. 

"Thank you. Me and dad have all matching pyjamas," she says proudly. 

"All?" 

"Well, maybe not all. But lots." 

She hums and shuffles closer to your chest. It felt odd at first —although Amy has sat in your lap at your desk at work, and even given you a hug on her birthday to say thank you for the books and candies, you're not used to children or the things that they want. But it feels less foreign the longer she sits there, and you find yourself relaxing for the first time that day. 

Spencer comes back with a shiny TV Guide Magazine and a bundle of Amy's clothes under his arm. His eyes light up as her head peeks over the back of the couch. 

"Sorry, I was just at Mrs. Gomorrah's," he says, quickly putting everything down to take her into his arms. 

"I know," Amy says into his shirt. 

He kisses her head. You almost miss it, the affection quiet and swift. "Was your nap okay? Or do you need another one?" 

"Dad! Y/N's here." 

"Y/N doesn't care that you take naps, she takes naps too." Snoozing up against his shoulder with drool running down your chin. 

"No, I can't sleep because we're having a slumber party!" 

"We are?" he asks. 

"But she needs matching jammies." 

"Well, I don't have anything matching, but it won't be long for all my clothes to dry. I can wear jammies, then, at least," you assure her, sending Spencer a squinting smile that says, She's the cutest thing on planet Earth. 

He smiles back, as if to say, She really is. "Maybe Y/N wants a nap." 

Amy's concern lands on you. She climbs out of Spencer's arms, pressing her hand to your shoulder. "Please don't nap, I want to play games." 

"I'll play games, babe," you say. "Any game you want." 

"Yes! And, and maybe we can make, um–" Puzzled, Amy quirks her mouth into a frown and bounds back to Spencer. He rounds the couch and leans down at her gesturing. "What's it called, the fruit candy?" she whispers.

"From earlier?" he whispers back. "It's tanghulu. Tang-who-loo." 

She whispers a sweet thank you, spinning on the spot with her hands held behind her back. "We can make tanghulu, it's fruit kebabs turned to candy! Do you want to?"

Spencer smooths her hair back from her face. "You don't have to," he mouths, already squeezing her arm like he's prepared to talk her down. 

"Well, if it's okay with your dad I'd love to."

She gasps happily, jumping down off the sofa to race into the bathroom. "I'll wash my hands!" 

Spencer snorts and sits on the couch arm. "Notice how she didn't even ask me?" 

"You know that's a good thing." Spencer's probably read every parenting book there is. "She's so smart, Spencer. So smart, it's incredible. You're amazing." 

He scratches the collar of his sleep shirt, his curls moving as though woken by a gentle breeze as he nods to one side, "She shows some signs of an eidetic memory. Not like mine, but most children who have eidetic memories don't have them like I do. I can't take the credit for that, you know, beyond genetics." 

"Of course you can, someone had to teach her these things for her to remember them. You're never as nice to yourself as you should be, Spence. Everybody knows you're a great dad." You slouch back into the couch. "And I'm not just saying that because you're letting me stay for free." 

"There's no version of this situation where I would ever charge you. Thank you, Y/N. Having her by myself has been hard– it's hard. She's easy and I love her and she's better for me than she probably should be." He winces, his talking rushed, like he's listing statistics. "I haven't really been by myself. Mrs. Gomorrah. The team. We've known each other for a year but you act like Amy's family whenever you see her, and that means a lot to me. That's why I'm glad you called. You can always call me if you need help." 

"You can always call me," you murmur back. 

Spencer bumps your thigh with his knuckles. "I'm glad we're friends. Are you sure you're not too tired? Tanghulu isn't easy if you've never made it." 

"Says who?" 

"East Asian Eating, issue 78. We have to find the sugar, water, glucose syrup sweet spot or the candy doesn't harden."

"We can do it. You're the smartest guy I know, and I've been known to be resourceful. Plus, we have a world class assistant." 

Spencer stands up and offers you his hand to help you come with him, his fingers brushing yours for a moment that seems to stretch for minutes. "Just curious," he says softly, to your heart's clear delight, "when was your last check up at the dentist?" 

Right. He isn't about to tell you something you want to hear. This is Spencer —you should've guessed an odd question was on the horizon. 

"I'll have to think about it," you say.  

Amy bounds out of the bathroom and paints a trail of water droplets from the table to the kitchen. "He thinks you have weak teeth!" she explains. 

"That is not what I think."