#understand everything has no thought behind it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

corroded-hellfire · 2 days ago

Note

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPRESrvDc/

Omg please make this an AYW one shot like imagine Luke and Ryan going big brother mode on someone messing with Eliza

This is the relationship I aspire for my future children to have. My first thought was, "Eddie needs to be told this is a joke so he doesn't freak out even more than the boys." lol

Words: 1.8k

[As You Wish masterlist]

"This gonna be so funny!"

Eddie comes to a halt outside Eliza's room. The mischievous tone to her voice reminded Eddie of a scheming goblin he'd seen in some fantasy movie somewhere. Normally, he'd associate that comparison more with Luke than tiny three-year-old Eliza, but she was certainly well on her way to earning her own title.

A thought occurs to your husband: what if Luke and Eliza are working together? Whoever the target is doesn't stand a chance. The surge of panic has him pushing the slightly ajar door open to make sure there isn't some diabolical plan to burn the kitchen down in protest of having vegetables with dinner tonight. It's a complete shock to the system though, when Eddie sees you sitting on the soft pink carpet, cross-legged as your daughter sits across from you. Both of your beautiful faces turn to look at him and Eddie is simultaneously amused and leery of the maniacal smile on Eliza's small pink mouth.

"Um..." Eddie hums, eyes going back and forth between you and Eliza. "What's going on here?"

"Oh, nothing," you say far too casually to be believable.

"We gonna get the boys!"

Eliza's admission has you looking back at her, internally reminding yourself that it's good she tells the truth—even if she's a snitch at the moment.

Eddie chuckles and rests his shoulder against the doorjamb. He crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows at the two of you.

"Is that so?"

"Mhmm!" Eliza replies. "Cause they ate my noodles. After Mama writed my name on them!"

It doesn't surprise Eddie in the least. The two growing teenage boys would eat anything and everything in sight. He never thought his food would be safer in the fridge at work than in the one at home.

"What exactly are we planning, ladies?" Eddie cocks an eyebrow, making you feel like a child right alongside your kid. "Not anything I'll have to clean up after, I hope."

"Oh, don't worry." You wave a dismissive hand at your husband. "It's just a joke to see how they react."

"To what?"

"Shhh!" Eliza pushes herself up and rushes forward to cover your mouth with her little hands. It's impossible not to laugh against her palms as she looks at you with imploring eyes.

Gently, you remove her hands from your face and tug her so she's sitting in your lap.

"Nothing bad," you assure Eddie. "I promise."

Eddie didn't need you to tell him that; he trusts you with not only his own life but the lives of all the kids as well. You would never do anything that would hurt them.

"Can I watch?" he asks.

Eliza nods. "But you gotta hide!"

"Where?"

"They're watching tv, right?" you ask, maneuvering Eliza to the side so you're able to stand up.

"Yeah. Some movie with Jack Black starting a band of children."

Eliza grabs your hand in hers as the two of you head towards the door.

"We'll walk through there and into the kitchen," you explain. "You can stay in the hallway and peek out. And remember..." You reach up and lovingly tap Eddie's right cheek. "What we're going to say isn't true. It's part of the prank."

Eddie's brow furrows and he tilts his chin up.

"That doesn't sound reassuring."

"Is a joke, Daddy!" Eliza explains, making you giggle.

"Alright, alright," Eddie laments, leaning down to playfully pinch her nose. She swiftly bats his hand away and ducks between the two of you out into the hall.

You follow out behind her, motioning for your husband to follow behind—but at a distance. He nods in understanding and keeps a few paces behind his favorite girls.

As you approach the living room, Eliza starts to giggle. You widen your eyes at her and hold your finger up to your lips, reminding her she has to act serious if she wants her brothers to buy your act. She nods and follows your lead to take a deep breath.

You motion for her to head out into the room the boys are relaxing in. She strolls out, alarmingly casual for a three-year-old playing a prank. Before you follow out after her, you look over your shoulder and share a look of amusement with Eddie.

"Your daughter," you whisper, not giving your husband time to respond before following behind her. Quietly, you clear your throat in preparation for your first line: "Are you serious?" You internally wince as your voice comes out a tad dramatic, but you have to keep it mildly louder than usual to catch the boys' attention.

Eliza's small stride allows you to be at her side a moment later. You check on your sons out of the corner of your eye and see them lounging on the two couches in the living room, faces blank and devoid of a care in the world as they watch the movie.

"A boy pushed you down on the playground today?" you ask, turning your attention to Eliza at your side.

"Mhmm," she hums, only the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

In your peripheral vision you see Ryan turn his head in your direction. His posture straightens a little, his attention securely locked in on your prank.

"How old was he?" you ask Eliza.

"Eight."

"An eight-year-old pushed Eliza down on the playground?" Ryan shouts, practically launching himself out of his seat.

"What?" Luke adds, voice booming as his brother's words pull him in. He jumps off the couch and both teenage boys cut off your and Eliza's path to the kitchen, forcing the two of you to come to a halt.

On one hand, this is the hardest it's been so far to keep yourself from breaking character. On the other hand, seeing the true concern and ire in the eyes of Eliza's big brothers is moving. The protectiveness they have for their little sister and the readiness to defend her at the drop of a hat is so touching that you fight tears from filling your eyes.

"What happened?" Ryan demands.

"Were you with Grandpa? Did he see it?" Luke questions.

You expect Eliza to crack right there, let out a loud laugh, and tell her brothers that they should see the looks on their faces. Instead, she proves to be a master at improv as she replies.

"It was behind the slide. He didn't see."

"Did you tell him?" Luke takes a step closer, practically towering over the three-year-old.

"No."

"Why not?" Ryan is almost shouting at this point.

"Who was it?" Luke asks, not allowing Eliza a moment to answer the older Munson brother's question. "Do you know him?"

"How would she know an eight-year-old?" Ryan asks, turning to look at the thirteen-year-old.

"I don't know. How did she know he was eight then?" Luke squabbles.

As if knowing this is the moment that neither of you could keep the ruse up any longer, both you and Eliza break into a devious bout of giggles.

The confused look on the boys' faces is enough to make you and Eliza laugh even harder.

"I don't think this is funny," Ryan says.

"But it's not true!" Eliza yells, jumping up and down in excitement.

"What?" The look on Luke's face is reminiscent of when he found out his favorite cereal brand had been discontinued.

"We pranked you!" Eliza shoves her finger into their faces, an evil grin on her own.

You can see the gears turning in both boys' heads as they take in her words and try to comprehend what is happening.

"No one pushed me!"

Luke tilts his head to the side before running his hands over his face. "I'm so confused."

"This is Eliza's little payback for you two eating her macaroni and cheese," you explain, planting your hands on your hips.

"You were in on this?!" Luke's shock causes his changing voice to crack.

"Girls gotta stick together." You hold your hand out towards your daughter, and she jumps up and slaps a high five against it.

Ryan groans and drops his head back, glaring up at the ceiling.

"You guys suck," he complains. "I was really worried!"

"I have been betrayed." Luke mimes getting stabbed in the heart and crumbles down on the carpet. Eliza laughs and starts to crawl on top of him. Waiting for the right moment, Luke snatches his little sister to his chest and starts tickling her.

She squeals and starts squirming around in his grip.

"Nooooo! Ryan, help!"

The fifteen-year-old scoffs and folds his arms across his chest.

"No way, squirt. Not after that."

"Mama!" Eliza calls through her peals of laughter. "Help me!"

Before you can even take a step toward the two of them on the ground, Ryan comes forward and wraps his arms around you. It's an approximation of a hug, but it's really to keep you where you are; standing a couple of feet away with your arms locked against your sides.

"Ryan!" You laugh.

"What?" he asks, unable to keep from chuckling himself. "I'm just hugging you!"

"Lies!" Eliza yells.

"You're one to talk!" Ryan calls back.

"Daddy!" It's Eliza's last attempt at help.

"He's not here to help you," Luke taunts, adding an evil laugh for emphasis.

"Yes huh!" Eliza squeaks.

As calmly and casually as can be, Eddie strolls out from the hallway and eyes the four members of his family, slipping his hands into his pockets as he watches it all.

"What's up, sweet pea?" he asks.

She shrieks as Luke tickles a particularly vulnerable spot.

"Help!"

"Pick a side, Dad," Ryan says.

"Choose wisely!" Luke adds.

"I'm his baby!" Eliza argues.

"But you guys said girls stick together and he's not a girl!" Luke reasons. "He should be on the guys' side!"

"Hmm." Eddie lazily tilts his head to the side, his fading brown curls falling against his shoulder. "You both make excellent points."

"What about me?" you ask, struggling in Ryan's hold. "I'm your wife!"

"But you've known us longer!" Ryan retorts.

"I think I'll stay impartial." Eddie shrugs, keeping a bored expression on his face. "Maybe I'll go make some macaroni and cheese."

"The root of all evil," Luke laments with a sigh, ceasing his attack on Eliza. The little girl is quick to slip from his grasp, immediately running up to Ryan and attempting to shove him away from you.

"Get off Mama!"

"I'm just hugging her," Ryan says, planting his feet to resist her impressive strength.

"Daddy, help!"

Eddie shrugs. "Sure." He takes a step forward and scoops Eliza up, tossing her over his shoulder as if she were a rag doll.

"No!"

Her legs flail but Eddie keeps a strong grip around her middle. Small hands pound against his back, but Eddie ignores all attempts at escape as he keeps walking into the kitchen. Tired from fighting off Luke a moment ago, Eliza lets her body go limp over her father's shoulders. She heaves a sigh filled with the exasperation of someone three times her age.

"Boys."

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #older!eddie #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fan fic #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson imagine #dad!eddie #AYW #AYWS #request

141 notes · View notes

hkthatgffan · 1 day ago

Note

What's actually your opinion on Stanford Pines?

Oh, that's an interesting question. Short answer; I like Ford and think he's a great, flawed but lovable character who has endured a lot and come out of it a better man than he was before. Now, if you want my long answer...keep reading beyond this for why I feel that way.

Back when I first saw Gravity Falls, I thought Ford was okay. He wasn't so much a favourite of mine (that title then and still belongs to Dipper and Mabel for me), nor was I as interested in him. I did love reading up everything in Journal 3 about him and all his antics.

During the Mabel hate era in 2018, I did somewhat sour in my opinion on Ford as I felt fans were being too harsh on Mabel and not realizing some of the negatives about him and how Dipper and Mabel were drifting into the same direction Ford and Stan had become. I felt angry that fans were hating on Mabel and calling out her mistakes but downplaying other characters', Ford included.

But then, if you were around in 2018 and remember the Mabel debates that raged on then...you know how messy it was no matter what side you were on, lmao. Be it anti or pro Mabel or Ford, people really debated long and hard during that time and it's an era I'm glad we're more or less past.

In the years since and having heard more takes from fans who like Ford and get him in ways I didn't, I do find myself appreciating and liking Ford a lot more than I did back then. I'm still always gonna be defensive of Mabel and firm on my stance that Dipper staying behind in Gravity Falls with Ford was the worst outcome that could've happened in that scenario, but I see Ford in a lens less of hatred and more realization that...the whole situation was a learning experience for everyone in that situation. Ford learned something from it, Mabel did, Dipper did...all of them did.

To me, Ford is a character that is good at heart. Like every member of the Pines family, he's flawed and has made mistakes that he's overcome and improved from. And as we see again in The Book of Bill...there is one major new thing we really see that makes him all the better in my eyes now than he used to be!

I've spoken about this before when someone asked what my stance on Billford is, but I think as someone who has survived being in toxic situations with people who made my life worse the same way Bill was a toxic person to Ford, I understand him more so now than I used to.

What we see is Ford and Bill having a partnership (or friendship or relationship depending on how you see it) that was toxic. Bill was manipulative, took Ford and tried to mold him into what he wanted him to be. And Ford eventually realized that but Bill made his life hell for trying to escape. Ford eventually being able to and learn to find happiness in his family and friends was an incredible thing to see and that single thing, having been through such shit myself as others probably can relate too, changed Ford in a huge way for me for the better.

Ford to me is a guy who managed to overcome the worst thrown at him and be able to let go of that whole situation and escape it to become better. And we all deserve that. We all deserve to escape the Bill Ciphers in our life, find our Pines family and grow and become better and happier from that.

That is what I think of Stanford Pines. He's a character who is flawed. He's a character who has his ups and downs. But at his core, he is a guy who overcame adversities thrown at him and found a way to live a better and more fulfilling life with those who appreciate and love him for who he is. For a character I once felt no real connection or understanding for and more so hatred...he sure has come a long way for the better and I couldn't be more proud of him.

I know for others this may not be how they see Ford or you may even look at what I said and think I missed the whole point. But that's okay. Because these characters are for us as fans to relate and find aspects in them we can understand. Headcanons exist for a reason. To me, that's how I see Ford. To you, he may be something else.

That's the beauty of this show. Headcanon these character the way you please, without fear or worry of being told you're wrong. Alex has said no headcanon to him will ever be confirmed or denied...so headcanon and perceive these characters the way you feel. Because we all are Gravity Falls fans...and love them the way we do.

But FR, we need more Mabel and Ford bonding. That's all I want from this show now...these two just having fun and being awesome, lol!!

#Ask That GF FAN #AMA #Ask #gravity falls #stanford pines #that gf fan

76 notes · View notes

wri0thesley · 2 days ago

Text

a prize to be won - capitano x fem!reader (5.3k)

you are not there for the destruction of your home. but you are there for the aftermath, when you catch the eye of the captain.

cw: dark content. kidnapped 'spoils of war' reader, descriptions of a razed village and death of everyone reader knows. explicitly fem reader. dubious consent, alcohol. based on this post.

this was a commissioned work.

You have never seen so much destruction.

You have never even thought you would see so much destruction, truth be told; the very idea of such things has never crossed your mind, when your village is ordinarily so calm and peaceful. You have loved your home fiercely and protectively your whole life - you have done everything asked of you, you have shared in the joys and the sorrows of your neighbours. Your home life is a humble one - your father a baker, your mother his assistant, your older brother set to inherit the bakery with the understanding you would work in it until the end of your life too - but it is not one you have ever maligned!

You've felt, perhaps, a rumbling of discontent once or twice - the thought that out there, there might be something more than what you have always dreamed about - but it has always been quickly quashed when you've been called to work, or your father has smiled at you or your friends embraced you. This is a good life you lead, and you are happy to live it.

Your village is supposed to be peaceful.

Your village has stood for years and years; was here for your grandparents and their grandparents before them. There are people who say the great tree in the village square is a thousand years old or more, who'll tell stories about the settlement that sprung up beside it with a laugh about how it will probably stand for a thousand more--

And yet, in front of you is the heart-rending proof that this is not to be so.

You feel yourself start to shake.

You had only gone out for a few hours; to gather some flowers for the bakery's window, some herbs that grew in the woods that your father would turn into deliciously flavoured bread. You had expected to come home, as you have so many times before, to the exact same place that you had left. Who would expect anything else?

But before you--

You can hear shouting and screaming, the beat of boots on the ground. Great plumes of smoke rise up from the houses that you know just as well as your own, as fire devours thatch and wattle and everything else the walls are made from - your own home is on the other side of the village, and it makes your stomach twist and ache to think that it could be following the same fate.

You do not understand.

You drop the basket you're holding, your arms suddenly feeling far too weak to support even themselves, let alone your spoils. Your feet drag against grass as you numbly, desperately, try to make yourself approach the smouldering ruins of your home. Nobody has seen you, not yet - but as you walk, as the smoke stings at your eyes and your throat, you can begin to make out figures striding amongst the carnage.

Big-booted, armoured and weapon-furnished figures, in helmets and furs, barking out orders in an accent you can only just place.

The Fatui.

But why here? Why now? Why your village?

It would be foolish, you know, to go any further. A clever girl would turn tail and run and hide out amongst the forest and the wilderness until the threat has gone and then maybe return to her home to see what the damage that has been wrought is. Your family have always been proud of you for being that kind of clever girl, when you've found errors in the accounting or remembered some little detail or other your harum-scarum brother is too bright and bouncy to keep in his head.

It is not clever of you to duck beneath the fence of the nearest home, to sidle into the garden, and to pick yourself a path behind the houses to try and stay out of sight.

You cannot simply go into the wilderness, not fully knowing if perhaps within that cacophony of flame and noise and horrors your family may still be alive and frightened and able to be saved. You have never thought yourself a particularly brave person, but it turns out that when one is in dire straits a hidden well of courage may be tapped into, and that is how it feels as you work your way through the grassy back gardens, ducking behind hedges and trees and walls and begging all of the Archons you can think of for their aid in staying hidden.

You hear screams, sometimes, and wet plunges and noises that are worse, and you cannot bear to think of what is happening to your friends and your neighbours. If they catch you, what will happen? Will they throw you to the fire? Will they plunge blades into the soft flesh of your body, will they tear you limb from limb, will you even have time to beg for your life before the rush of death is upon you?

You try not to think about it.

You're doing well, you think. You get closer and closer to the side of your village that your own home is on (you cannot go past the bakery - it is far too central, and has probably already been ransacked. You can only ask the Archons for their grace that your family was not inside of it when the Fatui squadron arrives).

And why are the Fatui here anyway? Simply for the pleasure of murder and pain and suffering? There are no riches in this village - there is nobody important, nothing that ought to have dragged a whole army down onto you--

You slide yourself into a small alleyway between two houses. With the sun setting, you are more hidden - and you must cross the centre of the village in order to reach your own home. You cannot stay on this one side forever. The spot is sheltered in shadows, at least, and you will yourself to peer into the murk of the darkness to ascertain whether you can dart out without too much attention.

You hear a crunch of leaves underfoot and your heart flees into your throat. You stop dead where you are, but as the noise gets louder and louder, you realise you have been found. You will not reach your home before the Fatui reaches you. You will not get to give your father one more kiss, your brother one more whisper of how proud he makes you, and bury your face in the sweet powdery scent of your mother's apron for one last moment.

He rounds the edge of the alley and stands there, an impressive figure caught in strands of moonlight, a visor down over his face, a cloak billowing around him. Trembling, you raise your chin to look your death straight in his face.

When the figure speaks, his voice is low and dark and rasping.

"Well," he says. "What do we have here?"

Everything about this man tells you that he is more than just some Fatui grunt. There is a certainty in the way he stands and surveys you, a craftsmanship to his armour that you have not seen in any of the other soldiers, a commanding tone to his voice than can only belong to a man who is used to issuing orders and even more used to those orders being followed to the letter. You are still trembling, and you do not lower your gaze.

You wish you could tell if he was smiling, or if he was preparing to strike you down - but behind his armour, his face remains a mystery to you, no matter how badly you may wish to know.

"Who are you?" He asks you, surprising you. You are expecting death, truth be told; the rest of your village, it seems, is burning around you. There is no reason to suspect you may be spared that fate.

You tell him your name, still trying desperately to cling onto the bravery that has made you lift your chin and stand proudly instead of running away. Far better to die staring it down, you remind yourself, even as it feels that your insides are a snarl of knots begging you to run. You even tell him that your family owns a bakery in the village. Even, at the end, you find yourself asking this;

"And who are you?"

It is enough to surprise a laugh out of him - a strange noise, half low velvet and half wheeze, as if he is unaccustomed to making merriment. That helmet stays levelled at you, and you see a hint of blue fire behind the darkness where his eyes should be, and you get the distinct impression that you are being observed. Sized up. Considered.

"I am the Captain," he says, eventually. He does not elaborate beyond that, but you do not need him to.

Rumours do not often make it this far out, but the exploits of Il Capitano have certainly preceded him. You have heard tell that he is a monster of a man, that his men will kill you as soon as look at you, that he leaves a trail of ruined cities in his wake, let alone villages. If this is truly the Captain before you, then you are in even worse trouble than you anticipated, and any last-minute desperate hopes that your family may be alive vanish on the wind as you swallow back tears.

He must be able to see the shake in your shoulders and the sway in your knees, but you do not let yourself show any more weakness than that. Your gaze stays steady, even as you feel a tear roll down the apple of your cheek.

"Then I suppose I am going to die here," you say, your tone final. You swallow. You lift your chin even more, exposing the soft and vulnerable skin of your throat, hoping he will make it quick. You are all the more aware of your clothing now than you were before - the simple peasant dress, well-made but worn, the skirts and the aprons you had just a few hours earlier gathered herbs in. It feels like almost nothing, standing before Capitano in furs and silver and armour, but it is yours. And a peasant girl dies as a peasant girl lives.

You prepare yourself for the swing of a sword, the gush of hot blood down your neck - but Capitano does not so much as place his hand upon his sword. He simply continues to look at you in that terribly interested way, as if you are a puzzle he desires to solve.

"You would give your life to me so easily?" He asks you. "Give everything up, little flower, and die here?"

"It is no more than everyone else in my village has done," you say, trying to be careful with your words. If you are too rude, perhaps he will drag you into the town square - perhaps he will make an example out of you, before his men. And though you are prepared and expecting to face your death, you would rather not make it even worse than it has to be.

A figure appears at Capitano's side, and then another; two of his men, who immediately fall to their knees and do not pay you a whit of attention.

"We're done here, My Lord," they say, in the voices of sycophants. "We have no useful information. No intel at all."

Is that what they were looking for in your little humble village? Intel about what? Nobody here goes further than the next village over! What could they possibly know that would be of any use?

"Very good," Capitano says, without turning his helmet from you. The two grunts laboriously pull themselves up from their knees, finally sneaking a glance at the peasant girl still standing, wondering what you must be doing here. Wondering if Capitano is about to kill you. "One more thing," he says - the men straighten to attention, waiting for whatever orders their leader is about to give.

You think you hear the ghost of a smile in his voice.

"I wish to take a souvenir," he says. "Bring this one back to camp and put her in my tent."

You are not fool enough to struggle against the Fatui who come to you, who take you by your arms - gentler than you'd expected - to march you on your way. You suppose they do not want to risk hurting you, when Capitano has expressed such an interest - but it rankles in the back of your throat that you are nothing more than a 'souvenir', some thing that can be taken and placed as and where the Captain pleases.

But you are lucky to not have been killed where you stand.

They march you out of your village, and you try not to look at the burnt-out husks that were once your neighbour's homes - you try not to let your eyes desperately seek out the shell that was once your family's bakery, or worse, your home. You keep your chin high and your lips pressed tight together, and all of the thoughts and feelings that are spooling around your head remain silently trapped within there. You do not think you would like anything you will hear from these soldier's mouths.

The campground is more alive than you would expect - and it simply makes you feel worse. When they have meat aplenty, to roast on open fires, when they have fine furs to drape over their tents and books to read . . . why ransack your home? Why not just search for this so-called 'intel' and leave? But you cannot say this aloud. You bite your tongue.

Before you know it, you are brought to the biggest tent of all. It stands tall and royal-blue, imposing and regal in the insignias and crests embroidered upon it. The two Fatui guards push you inside, and you hear the sound of something zipping, and see their shadows take guard outside to make sure you make no attempt at running.

As if you would.

You would not get a hair's-breadth from the tent before you found yourself shot or stabbed or grabbed or worse, and all the more painful they will make it when they realise you are running from their leader. You bring a hand up to smooth over your hair, noting ruefully that in your morning activities foraging and your attempts to sneak around, you are dusty and dirty and out of place. The tent is a strangely clean place, for all of the bloodshed that its occupant must regularly indulge in.

You take a moment to peek around it. There are those fine, expensive furs - there are bottles of wine and alcohol stacked together, a makeshift desk scattered with papers and quills and ink, a bedroll far bigger than any you've ever seen festooned with pillows and blankets and more of those same white pelts. It is only a tent, only designed to be brought from place to place, somewhere to sleep at night and nothing more - and yet within it, there is more luxury than you would have ever seen in your humble cottage home.

Voices from outside.

A low rumble that you now recognise as the Captain makes you stand up, stock-still and straight, from the books you were crouching to read the spines of. You press your hands into fists at your side and wait for the flaps of the tent to open and for the Captain to come in, to kill you or worse, all fury and blood and desire.

It does not happen like that.

Il Capitano does enter the tent, and you notice that he dismisses the two grunts standing guard outside with an order ending '. . . and bring it back here'. You wonder what it is they are to bring back - something to dispose of your body, perhaps? But he does not rush at you. In fact, he strips his sword from his side to rest it in a rack by the entrance of the tent, and then he stands there, regarding you once more.

The silence stretches between the two of you like a thing that can be seen, a shroud of fear on your side and amusement on his. Finally, you break:

"Are you going to kill me now?" You ask him, hating the tremble of your voice. It is difficult to get a read on whatever it is he is thinking, with the mask covering his face, but he tilts his head to the side.

"I would not have brought you here to kill you, little flower," he says. "What do you think I wish to do?"

"I . . ." You swallow. There are hundreds of possibilities running through your head, and you do not like a single one of them. "I don't know."

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says, after a pause, your fear shimmering in the air. "I would not have wasted my time."

"Why not?" That one falls from your lips before you can deadfall it, and your shoulders draw in, all fear. You shouldn't be questioning why he doesn't wish to rip you limb from limb! You should be grateful to still have all of your internal organs on the right side of your body! But . . . you are nothing special, and you do not understand what it is that has saved you thus far.

Capitano crosses the room instead of answering you, and one of his gauntlet-clawed fingers tilts up your chin instead, to look down at you with that inscrutable blue-fire gaze behind the mask he wears.

"You didn't run," he says to you, after a moment. "You didn't scream. You're terribly sweet to look at. You trembled and shook like a leaf, all big wide deer-eyes - and yet you stood firm and strong and brave. Why do you think I had you brought back to my tent, little doe?"

You are saved from answering the question by the tent opening - and those two Fatui grunts from earlier enter, hauling between them what looks like a large tin bath. One of them goes to a corner and begins to poke and prod at a fire, and then they place it before the fire and bow respectfully at Capitano. A creeping tendril of dread strokes down your spine as you look at it, and Capitano calls out a thanks as they leave.

He turns back to you.

"You're filthy," he tells you, and that gauntleted hand strokes over your cheek now, and further down, until it rests against the bare skin of your collarbone. "Will you undress for me and let me bathe you, or do I have to unclothe you myself?"

Oh. Oh.

"I--" You fumble, the truth crashing about you like a tidal wave. Your hands flutter helplessly. But there is no escape, is there? And if you wish to keep your life-- "I can undress myself," you say, swallowing back more protestations and begging. You strip off your apron, and move to the buttons of your blouse - through it all, Capitano's eyes remain hidden by his mask, just a flash of blue fire. But you know he is looking at you. You know he is watching, as your skirt falls to the ground, and then your chemise, and then you are standing bare and shivering in his tent.

"Beautiful," he says, after a moment. "And you'll be all the more beautiful once clean. In the bath, please, little flower."

You give one last lingering look to your pile of clothes - the last remnant of your home life - and hope he will not have them destroyed, before you cross the short distance to the tub before the fire. You lower yourself into it gingerly, expecting it to be either boiling hot or freezing cold - but as you dip a toe in, you find that the temperature is perfect. It soothes the aches and bruises you have from your adventures today, and you can't stop the soft sigh of pleasure that falls from your lips as you fold yourself into it. You hear Capitano let out a low chuckle - and then he is kneeling beside you.

You notice he has shed his gauntlets, now - but he still wears dark gloves beneath them, and he seems not to care if they get wet as he reaches forward to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"I shan't hurt you," he reminds you, in that low voice like the churning of an ocean. "Submit to me. Let me take care of you."

It is a strange thing to hear after everything he has done, but you are at his merch, so all you do is give him a stiff little nod. You wonder if he smiles at your acquiescence beneath the helmet, even as he reaches to a small shelf beside the fire and pulls out a collection of jars and bottles and washcloths and sponges, in colours and shapes and sizes that feels like an excess to you.

He pours something sweet-smelling and floral into the bath water, uses one hand to swish it through so that the sweet scent will permeate your body, and it seems it flows up from the surface of the water in almost-visible swirling curlicues.

(At home you are used to bathing in a similar tin bath, but there is one washcloth for each of you, a communal bar of soap, and the thought of anything so luxurious as bath oils or your own shampoo would get you a scolding for the waste of money. You have never wanted for such things - you are content with your life - but the thought that Capitano would use them, on you, a lowly peasant girl--)

The first thing he does is reach into the water, to swell the sponge - and your breath catches as he leans closer, and then the sponge is slowly working over your body, to clean the dirt and the dust of the day from your skin. You feel like you cannot breathe at his closeness - and you expect him to take advantage, to use this as a way to touch you more--

But he does not. You find it rather strange how his body does not seem to kick off any heat, but he is so close as he leans to work at a particularly stubborn grass stain on your shoulder that you cannot give it more than a single moment's thought.

The way he cleans you is almost worshipful - ritualistic, slow and careful and thorough. Your breath shakes in your chest, as he reaches the curve of your breast. And though he does indeed clean it, though the sponge does indeed brush over your nipple and make it pebble and harden, he does not linger any longer than he needs to in order to ensure your cleanliness.

Even when he switches to a washcloth and he dips it between your thighs - he notices, from the brief tense of his shoulders, that you react to the sensation - he does not push further.

"Your hair, now," he intones, and he moves to kneel behind you - and with those same fingers that washed you like he was a postulant in a church, he works through the tangles, smooths and cleans it, until it lays about your shoulders in clean wet strands.

You think this is to be it, but Capitano is not yet done in this strange pampering - he reaches for other things, for other bottles full of ointments and lotions and potions, and he works those, too, into your skin where it is red or bruising. You can do nothing but stay there in the tin bath, as he calmly continues.

"You will want for nothing, now," he tells you, as he dabs something sweet smelling on your collar bones, behind your ears - you think this is perfume oil, though you've never been able to afford it. "I will take care of you, little flower. You will be my most prized of all."

Your hair, as he works more floral oil through it. And then he is standing, taking your arms to help you up - your knees feel strangely weak, like they will buckle beneath you. You have never felt quite so clean, even after baths at home. Flour always seemed to linger in the cracks of your palms, dough beneath your nails. But you feel as if you move in a cloud of fresh-scented air, as Capitano's massive bulk lifts you from the bath as easily as if you were a doll and wraps a fluffy towel about your body, thicker and more luxurious than the scratchy old ones that you have - had - at home.

You feel strange. Warm and hot and wanted, and fearful at the same time of what Capitano will want from you now he has cleaned you. You can feel a strange stirring between your thighs - an awareness of your body that you are not used to. You have never given much thought to the men of your village. You have always thought one day you would marry, of course . . . but no men have ever caught your attention.

And though Capitano is your kidnapper, though he has lain waste to everything you have ever known - he is broad and mysterious and far more gentle than you would have expected, and him being the first one to touch you in such a way has ignited a fire within you that you do not know how to quell.

"Come over to the bed, little lamb," he says to you - and like a lamb, docile and obedient, you follow him.

This must be it, you think. This is when he will shove you onto his bedroll and have his way with you, wanting as only a man can, using you as nothing more than a receptacle - and then you can once more hate him, and these strange feelings whirling in your stomach will finally abate, and life will put itself back on an axis you understand.

It is still not as you expect. You should not have thought anything would be, in this strange new existence you have found yourself in.

Instead, he cups your cheek and murmurs against your ear;

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

You realise you have not eaten all day, and you feel your cheeks heat as you give him a nod. It still feels frightening to let him know of your weaknesses - but as you say it, he produces a tray laden with breads and cheeses, and places it upon the bed between you. You go to take a slice, but Capitano stops you - and then he is hand-feeding you, as delicately and with as much care as he had washed you.

It's delicious. You are used to freshly baked bread, as a baker's daughter, but the soft sweetness in your mouth is something else - you are almost glad that he's feeding you himself, for after the day you have had you are hungry, and you are not sure you wouldn't shame yourself falling upon it like a wolf.

"Pace yourself," Capitano says, and though you cannot see his face there is a smile in his voice. "There is more where it came from. You will not want for anything, my sweet flower. Not ever again."

He decides when you have had enough - your stomach comfortably full, as he moves the tray and takes it across the room for some lowly other Fatui member, you're sure, to clean up. You feel that fear again, as he moves towards you, and you realise the wide bedroll you are on is draped all over with furs and cushions, and you are still in nothing more than the towel he wrapped you in after bathing you.

"A drink," he says, and it is not a request. He brings a bottle of wine and one glass over to you, and you watch as he pours the viscous red liquid into the glass, so like the colour of blood that you have to dampen the fear that goes coursing through your veins. He must notice that you have tensed, for he softens his words as he says; "It will make you relax. It will make this easier. I have no desire to hurt you, little lamb."

So you let him wrap one of his strong, big hands around the back of your head, cradling you as gently as one would cradle a lover. You let him lift the glass to your lips and tilt it, until the red wine - sweet and thick and cloying - slips down your throat as easily as silk. You have drank before, but never something so rich, never something so expensive - never with a man like Capitano beside you.

"There," he murmurs against your ear, cradling you, holding you, his body still cold but firm and strong behind you. "Another sip. Good. Good girl." You swallow what he gives you, and in time - as you're laid there for him, as you're held and coddled and treated as precious glass - you feel that familiar sensation.

A warmth that spreads to your toes and makes you feel as though you're floating on air - a soft kind of airiness, as if the things that are happening around you are not truly real. Capitano does not lean down to kiss you, but you understand why he has carefully gotten you just drunk enough to feel light and expectant when he peels your towel away and tosses it aside, leaving you utterly bared before him on his bed.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and this time he does let his hands learn the shape of you. This is no quick attempt to clean you - he is not intending gentlemanly cleaning now. This is a desire to hold you and touch you--

And yet he still does not wrest control from you, as you had feared he might.

"I have promised," he murmurs, "that I would not hurt you." The curve of his palm, taking hold of the heavy weight of your breast - your nipple gently tugged between thumb and forefinger, just enough so that your back arches involuntarily and a soft whine escapes your mouth that makes him sigh. "I do not break my agreements, little flower. You are safe."

You ought not to feel safe. You ought to be terrified - you ought to be wondering if, when he has had his fill of your body, he will toss you aside. You ought to be wondering how much of this is a lie. But Capitano's hands are stroking over your waist, your hips, the softness of your thighs. When he urges you to spread them, you cannot help but do so.

"Exquisite," he breathes, as he uses his thumbs to spread open your sex, the coolness of the air hitting it and making you fight back the squirming. You do not want him to touch you. You want him to touch you more than you've ever wanted anything before.

"Lovely," he murmurs, when he leans down and presses his helmet up just enough for a mouth - strangely cold, again, a tongue harder and longer than you're expecting - to wrap around your nipple, for teeth to graze the sensitive skin and your body to go on high alert that he will bite and eat you alive the way that fairy stories and rumours of the Fatui have said that they so enjoy doing.

"Perfect," he murmurs, when he brings his thumb to your mouth and you - terrified and brave, afraid and yielding, unsure and battling with your own conscience - open your lips to let him slide the tip of it past your lips, to rest there.

And when he moves, when he covers you, when you feel the stiffness of something impossibly hard and big pressing against your inner thigh, he murmurs;

"Will you be good for me, little lamb? Will you be my spoils?"

Your throat is dry when you answer him; the only answer you can really give. An answer that gives up your personhood, that reduces you to nothing more than a prize to be won - but an answer that wins you, at least, your life.

"Yes, My Lord. Yes."

#genshin impact posting #not sfw text #dub con for ts #alcohol for ts #commissioned work #writing #capitano x reader #dark content

137 notes · View notes

yapihapi · 22 hours ago

Text

You’ve been the perfect student ever since kindergarten. The school has been blessed to have you—student leader, consistent top achiever, and the school’s pride in academic competitions. Medals, awards—you’ve brought home so many. You’ve always been outstanding.

But then Nagi transferred to your school. Suddenly, everything changed.

It felt like you were perpetually in second place, and no matter what you achieved, there was always this gnawing feeling of inadequacy.

Even when the list came out, showing that you scored higher than him, it didn’t feel like a win. He always did it so effortlessly.

You sat in the front row, dedicated, writing notes and reviewing endlessly. But when you glanced at Nagi in the back, you’d always catch him sleeping at his desk, oblivious to the world. It frustrated you to no end.

During quizzes and exams, he’d still get high marks, but his carefree attitude made it seem unfair. While you sacrificed sleep and poured every ounce of energy into studying, he simply coasted. Yet he remained unbothered, like he wasn’t trying at all.

You were jealous.

Nagi noticed your furrowed brows whenever your eyes met, but he didn’t understand why. You’d never even spoken to each other. To him, you were the model student—perfect, composed, and untouchable. But he was just that guy in the back of the class, minding his own business.

When midterms came, the pressure was unbearable. You spent endless hours reviewing and juggling your responsibilities. The weight of expectations, the relentless need to prove yourself—it consumed you.

Then came the exam day. You answered the test quickly, confident in your preparation. But as you handed in your paper, you noticed Nagi did the same, just minutes after you. You glanced at him in disbelief. Was he really that gifted, or was it luck?

As the class emptied, you stayed behind to pack your things. Nagi lingered too, his feet propped up on a chair, phone in hand, looking as relaxed as ever.

Then it happened—a sudden, warm sensation in your nose.

“Huh?” you muttered as you touched your upper lip. Blood.

Nagi furrowed his brows when he glanced at you. He put down his phone, grabbed tissues from his bag, and rushed to your side.

“Here,” he said softly, handing you the tissues.

You stared at him, startled by his uncharacteristic concern. He didn’t stop there. Gently, he guided you to the clinic, one hand lightly supporting your arm.

At the clinic, the nurse tended to you, cleaning you up and ensuring you were fine. Once everything was settled, you stepped out, adjusting your bag and ready to head home.

You stopped in your tracks when you saw him. Nagi was leaning against the wall just outside the clinic, a lollipop in his mouth. He wasn’t looking at you, his gaze lost somewhere on the ceiling, deep in thought.

You tried to walk past him, hoping to avoid an awkward interaction, but after a few steps, he spoke.

“Why do you despise me so much?”

You froze, his question hanging in the air. Slowly, you turned around, meeting his confused gaze.

“I don’t hate you,” you said coldly, though your voice wavered. “I’m… jealous of you.”

His confusion deepened. “Jealous?”

You sighed, the weight of your feelings spilling out. “You’re so good at academics, but you barely try. I work myself to exhaustion, and I still feel like it’s not enough. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat—I have to push myself because of the standards I’ve set. Then you come along, doing the bare minimum, and it makes me feel… small. Like I’m stupid.”

He blinked, stunned into silence.

“I just wanted to feel like I was enough,” you continued, voice trembling. “But when you showed up, it felt like I had to work even harder just to keep up. I’ve never felt this way before.”

Nagi scratched the back of his neck, unsure of what to say. “I… I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” you replied quickly. “This is childish. I shouldn’t even feel this way.”

You turned to leave, but his hand caught your wrist.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. Honestly, I kind of disliked you too at first. I thought you were just a spoiled rich girl who had everything handed to her. But I didn’t realize…” He trailed off, exhaling deeply. “You really do deserve the top spot. I don’t even care about ranks—” He paused, muttering to himself. “Why am I even explaining this?”

You gave a small nod, avoiding his gaze. “I see,” you said quietly, the bitterness still lingering in your voice as you turned away.

The rest of the school year didn’t go as you expected. Somehow, you and Nagi became close. He wasn’t as infuriating as you’d thought—laid-back, yes, but also oddly insightful in his own way. The tension between you hadn’t completely disappeared, but it had softened into something more tolerable, almost unspoken.

One afternoon, you found yourself sitting beside him on a bridge, both of your feet dangling over the edge.

“Do you always come here?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” you replied, staring at the horizon. “It helps me clear my mind.”

The golden sunlight bathed your face, softening your usually sharp features. For the first time, Nagi saw you relaxed—genuinely at peace.

He watched you, noticing details he’d overlooked before. The way your hair caught the sunlight, the faint curve of your lips when you smiled. It struck him.

“You know,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper, “I think you’re amazing. Not because of your grades or your accomplishments. Just… you.” He hesitated, his gaze softening. “But you should take care of yourself more. You push yourself so hard, and you don’t deserve to burn out trying to meet everyone else’s expectations.”

You turned to him, startled by his sincerity. His words lingered in the air, disarming you. For once, the competition didn’t matter. Sitting there with him, bathed in the warmth of the setting sun, you felt a sense of calm settle over you—a feeling you hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was strange, but for the first time, you didn’t feel the need to prove anything.

And maybe, just maybe, the one-sided rivalry had finally come to an end. It wasn’t about winning or losing anymore, but about understanding. You realized that chasing perfection wasn’t the only way to prove your worth, and perhaps Nagi wasn’t the antagonist you made him out to be. Instead, he was someone who challenged the way you saw yourself—someone who, without meaning to, helped you see things differently.

#academic rivals #I WANT HIM #anime #fanfics #fanfiction #manga #bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock #blue lock x reader #blue lock x female reader #blue lock x you #bllk x you #bllk manga #nagi seishiro #bllk seishiro #nagi x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #nagi seishiro x you

70 notes · View notes

blank-house · 1 day ago

Note

Hello!! Hope you’re doing well!! I noticed something that’s maybe funny that had me genuinely confused about your point system.

So, I’ve replayed keyframes a few times now, and I have a general idea of how each event will play out. I replayed it again recently and the first event I did was the study event where you can either go with Percy and Elio or Jamie, Deja, and Cameron. So, I talked to Jamie about his book, went to the coop with Percy and Elio, stayed behind to draw on the chalkboard with Percy, and succeeded the QTE with Elio.

And the funny thing is that after the event, I noticed that I had somehow gained enough points with all of the guys to get a phone call with any of them - it just depends on the randomizer.

And that’s where the confusion comes in because what do you mean they all like my MC enough to call them?! Percy is understandable, I guess, since I went to the coop like he wanted and stayed behind with him. But I talked to Jamie ONCE and that was enough to get a phone call?! And Elio?!? All I said to Elio was, “Hey, do you have anything else to give the coop?” and that was all he needed?!? I know that Elio is easy to befriend but that just seems like he needs to raise his standards!! /j

I am so confused. I am bewildered. Befuddled, even. How exactly does your point system work? This has only happened with one specific MC I play as and I need to know what I’m doing right with them since my other MCs struggle to make friends.

Anyways, this isn’t a complaint, I just thought it was funny and needed to air out my thoughts. I’m not expecting a reply since this wasn’t even a question. Your point system makes absolutely no sense to me but even that is really fun. You all made a great game and I’m excited to see what you come up with next!!

I assign points arbitrarily, purposefully and/or as fairly as possible! If it makes sense to me for the guys to like the MC for a choice, or a moment, or even a perspective then you get a point.

That way— it’s entirely possible to get a Jamie phone call even though he’s so difficult if you do everything “right” from the moment you met him :3

But lol at least you’re having fun with the mechanic.

#keyframes asks #it’s just like what Lilly said #the point system just has to make sense to me— the one doing a lot of the backend things lol

56 notes · View notes

glasvera · 2 days ago

Text

Golden Morphine

Adam Warlock x Fem!Reader

Description: You're checking in with Adam to make sure your injuries are healing well... and this time, his healing has an altogether different effect on you.

Warnings: Spicy but no smut (yet)

A/N: I'm in my Adam Warlock era. My Golden Boy Arc. I am so down bad for this man it is insane. I'm writing nasty things about him instead of getting him to Lord proficiency on Marvel Rivals. I need professional help.

... and yes I have a Part 2 planned.

Word Count: 2.2k

“You are sure this is alright?” he asks tentatively while his hands hover just millimeters above your skin. His palms glow with a faint golden light.

A lilting giggle sounds in your throat as you nod, perhaps, for the tenth time in the past five minutes. His concern was endearing, but he really needn't ask quite so frequently.

You had asked him to check up on some recovering injuries you had to make sure everything was alright; after all, you had broken several bones, and you definitely didn't let them rest as much as you probably should have. Unfortunately for the flustered man standing behind you, many of those bones included ribs and you had some nasty contusions on your back. Perhaps he could have just snapped his fingers and healed you good as new, but the two of you had fallen into a rhythm of intimate understanding. You had thought nothing of it when you had approached him before, and you thought nothing of it this time as well.

He had come to enjoy watching your wounds close and mend beneath his ministrations, and you had come to enjoy the feeling of it. When those golden tendrils pour into you, you're filled with a surge of what can only be described as euphoria. Golden morphine.

It was delicious. It was addictive.

So, here you sit with your back to him, having lifted your shirt up so that it hangs loosely around your neck and over your chest. This was the reason for his constant requests for reassurance. Seeing your skin bared before him like this, the warmth emanating beneath his touch, felt like the ultimate sin. And with the way you sigh with each healing wave… he could feel the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. If only you knew what you did to him.

“It's fine, Adam. Besides, I thought you liked to watch?” you teased gently, shooting him a cheeky grin over your shoulder.

You could have sworn his cheeks had turned a darker shade of gold… or bronze, perhaps? He certainly couldn't seem to look you in the eye.

“Forgive me, it's just…”

“What? Is it that bad? How many different shades of purple are there back there?” you tease again, shaking your head slightly.

“N-No! I simply feel as if I… as if I shouldn't look,” he admits meekly.

That’s what’s bothering him? You nearly roll your eyes. With no small amount of discomfort and a few grunts, you scoot yourself around to better face him. Bad idea. He immediately covers his face to avoid looking upon your chest, even if it is mostly covered by your rolled up shirt.

“Please! I do not-!”

“Adam! How many times have you healed me? How many times have you seen my skin?” you interrupt him, at this point slightly annoyed both by his chivalrous stubbornness and the pain you'd suffered to face him properly. You pout with your bottom lip jutting out towards him.

“But you are-!”

He gestures broadly to your bare top half with his free hand, still doing his best not to look at you directly. You catch that hand mid-movement and lock his fingers with your own.

“Adam,” you begin again, this time softer, and he can't help but pause his worries to hang onto your every word. You give his hand a squeeze. “Feel that? It's just skin. And this…”

You guide his hand to rest on your waist, and you could have sworn he stopped breathing. For a brief moment, you admire the contrast of his golden flesh against yours.

“...is just more skin,” you finish, your voice soft and airy. Even you have to admit that your mouth feels a bit dry at the touch despite being the one to initiate it.

One of his white gold eyes peeks between his fingers and stares intently at where your hands lay. His breathing is ragged now, and you can feel the way his hand trembles beneath yours. Long moments pass in silence between the two of you. Languid strokes of your thumb soothe the back of his hand, and finally, the trembling lessens. But it does little to lessen the sparks igniting in this moment.

“Soft…” he breathes out. It brings an almost relieved smile to your lips and a warmth to your cheeks.

“But still skin. And I promise I don't mind you looking at me, or touching me for that matter. It's just a part of the healing process, right?” you say reassuringly. There's something so tender in your words, and his hand falls from his face as his gaze returns to your face. Those chiseled features soften. Inwardly, he curses himself for being so easily affected by so much as a glance from you.

“O-Of course. Forgive me,” he murmurs bashfully. Then, his brows knit together in confusion, and he chews pensively on his lip.

“You… like this?” he asks, blinking before those milky white orbs meet your gaze. “It radiates off of you. A warmth. An affection.”

Oh. Your blush deepens, though it was no secret in the end, you suppose.

“I do,” you affirm. “I like being with you. And I like being taken care of, I suppose,” you add with a soft titter.

You both avoid each other’s gazes then, and an even thicker silence pervades the space around you. For a moment, you fear you've said too much. Have you finally gone too far? It's always been different with Adam; you can't deny that. But true feelings are so often felt and so rarely spoken between you. You worry that you've broken some unspoken pact, ruined the intimacy you've allowed yourselves this long.

“That is… good,” he states simply, finally, taking a deep breath between words.

Now it’s your turn to be surprised as your eyes flash up to meet his.

“It is…?” you ask hesitantly, the words a mere whisper on your lips.

Adam’s head tilts to the side, puzzled by you once more. A few locks of golden hair droop unceremoniously onto his forehead.

“Should it not be?”

You blink a few times and study his face, searching for any hint of uncertainty. Instead, you only find his apprehensive gaze as he waits for you to answer. The corner of your lip twitches into a smile, and you exhale a small huff through your nose.

“No, no, it’s fine. I was just surprised,” you respond with a hint of relief in your voice. Your hand travels up his arm, leaving his on your waist as your fingertips dance along his bicep. His eyes flicker down to watch, seemingly enraptured. His lips part in anticipation as you lean in closer.

“Now, do you mind finishing what you started…?” you breathe as your hand comes to rest on his chest, tracing the delicate lines that seemed to be engraved into his skin.

An audible gulp sounds in his throat as his eyes continue to follow your hand. Finally, they look back up to yours. “What… what I started?”

You hadn’t intended to tease him, not really, but the way he gazes at you with bated breath makes it quite the tempting prospect. Another time, perhaps.

“Healing me, silly,” you answer with a chortle. “Even if I do like being with you, I did come here for a reason.”

He straightens up then, suddenly, and clears his throat. You definitely recognize that deep copper shade to be a blush on his cheeks now, and it has your stomach doing flips. The perfect man, truly.

“R-Right, yes,” he says, trying so desperately to hide the embarrassment in his voice. It’s difficult now for him to focus with whatever… this was developing between you two, but somehow he manages. The perfect being, and all that.

He starts where his hand rests upon your waist. You’re not sure if it’s his lack of focus, or if there was something more in his intent now, but it’s strong. It catches you off guard as you feel that golden energy pour through you, healing the last of your bruises and delicately setting your cracked ribs into place. But more than that, it sends a tingling sensation coursing through your entire being. It’s so sudden that you can’t stop the sound that escapes your lips.

You can’t stop the broken, breathless moan that cracks in your throat. Thank goodness your hand was already braced on his chest. Your fingers curl against the skin there, and your body nearly convulses with the strength of it.

Forget golden morphine. His healing was like an aphrodisiac to you now.

He pulls away from you in an instant. Of course he does. His face is the picture of horror, and he stares down at his hands for a moment before he takes you by the shoulders.

“Y/N!” His voice is exasperated as he looks you over. “I am so sorry! What have I done?”

It takes you a second to catch your breath, and your cheeks are flushed. That golden energy lingers and sends shocks of pleasure straight to your core. You grip the mantle of his cape in both of your fists and pull him closer.

“Fuck, Adam…” you curse, and you can't help but laugh breathlessly when he peers down at you in utter confusion. “N-nothing bad, I assure you.”

Your eyes are half-lidded, and your grip shows no sign of weakening. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you or your words, but this is truly unlike anything he has ever witnessed. Adam takes the time to study you, noticing the warmth radiating off of you and… something else he doesn't recognize. A need?

Curious as he is, he composes himself once more and places his hand at your ribs, just inches underneath your breast. You barely have time to process it before he's sending out another wave of energy. It leaves you panting, clamping your thighs together, and trembling. Your toes curl in your boots and your head falls to rest on his chest while you catch your breath.

Oh.

He's catching on. Slowly. Slower than the tightness forming in his pants, at least.

“It… feels good?” he asks, his voice taking on a low huskiness. When all you do is nod, his hand begins to travel up your side to cup your cheek. “Y/N… allow me to see your face.”

There was no way you could deny him now, and your head rises so that you might meet his pearlescent gaze. He finds your pupils blown and your lips parted ever so sweetly… His thumb traces your bottom lip and he sends the tiniest whisper of energy to that spot. Your eyes shut tight as a whine catches in your throat.

It draws a shuddery exhale from him. He doesn’t understand why, but some part of him needs to hear more of these noises from you. He speaks before he even realizes what he asks.

“Please,” he begins, a soft quiver in his voice, “Please let me kiss you.”

It’s not your voice that answers, but your lips. They crash into his; it’s messy, needy, utterly stealing the breath from his lungs. Your hands leave the mantle of his cape to slide into those silky golden locks at the nape of his neck, determined to make the same mess out of him that he’s made of you. He gasps into your mouth before both of his hands are cupping your face. It’s clear who has more experience in this field, but you certainly don��t mind taking the lead. Your legs part and wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly close as he stumbles slightly to steady himself. Nipping and tugging at his bottom lip with your teeth draws a whimper from him that leaves him bucking his hips into yours, and you can’t help but let out a low moan at the way his evident desire grinds against you.

He breaks the kiss then, clearly a bit overwhelmed with his flushed face and swollen lips, but shows no signs of letting you go. His chest rises and falls with the force of his breaths.

“I… I do not know what it is you do to me, but…” he finally murmurs, his breath fanning across your face. “I know that I like it. I want to hear more of you. Feel more of you.” The back of his hand brushes soothingly along your cheek before brushing through your hair, and his reverent gaze melts you in an instant. Then his touches travel lower, and his golden fingers toy with the bunched up fabric of your shirt. “...That is, if you will allow me?”

You must be dreaming. Sure, you had just kissed him, and gods know you’ve wanted to do that for ages, but for him to want to continue? It feels like something out of your fantasies.

So when your hands fall from his neck, when your fingers find the edge of his cape and slowly push it off of him and he lets you, you’re still not sure it’s real. But you’re not going to give up the chance to live out this dream of yours regardless.

“Only if you let me do the same,” you respond airily, occupying your fingers with tracing those delicate lines across his chest and shoulders.

“I-I…” he starts, clearly distracted by your touches. “Yes. Please.”

#marvel rivals #adam warlock #marvel rivals x reader #adam warlock x reader #fem reader #glasvera writes #if adam warlock has 0 fans i am dead #glasvera ridiculously pines over fictional character no 345

32 notes · View notes

smystermy · 11 hours ago

Text

𝐧𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐞

tags: geto suguru x you; canon-compliant (but it isn't important to this fic); set some time after his defection; you both co-parent nanako-mimiko; established relationship; domestic fluff; gentle romance.

warnings: none except this that the reader's hair is long enough to be tied into a bun. no gendered language used for the reader.

word count: 676.

oneshot, loosely related to 'peel your heart like a pomegranate'.

The living room is wrapped in stillness, save for the soft clack of your fingers on the laptop keys and the faint hum of distant traffic outside. Geto sits slouched on the couch, thumb idly scrolling his phone, his mind half-absent as he flips through post after post he doesn’t care about. He barely notices when his hand lowers slightly, his gaze drifting up and—

He sees you.

You’re seated on the carpet, cross-legged in front of the coffee table, the glow of the overhead light spilling down like a halo. It highlights the curve of your cheekbone, the soft slope of your nose, the tiny frown pulling your brows together as you stare intently at the screen. A strand of hair has fallen loose from your haphazard bun, one you’ve probably shoved up without thought, and you’re dressed in one of his old shirts—thin and worn, slipping lazily off your shoulder like it belongs there—paired with baggy shorts that swallow you whole.

It’s the most mundane of moments, the kind most people would overlook, but Geto feels his chest ache, his breath catching in his throat.

You’re not posed or polished; there’s nothing deliberate about the way you’re sitting there. But to him, it’s everything.

A kind of beauty that doesn’t have words. Real. Raw and unfiltered, like the quiet poetry of morning sunlight spilling across a room. How many times has he tried to capture moments like this—to put them into thoughts, into something he could hold onto—only to realize they can’t be contained? You—lost in thought, unaware of his gaze—are something fleeting and infinite all at once.

Before he knows it, his phone slips from his hand, forgotten as it tumbles onto the cushion beside him. He slides off the couch, the carpet warm beneath him as he sits beside you. A small smile curves his lips as he watches you, so engrossed in your work that you don’t notice him at first—not until his hand lifts, his fingers gently brushing that loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You startle slightly, blinking up at him, the crease in your brow softening. “Senpai?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

His gaze lingers, tender and quiet, like he’s etching this moment into his memory. Then, without thinking, his hand cradles your chin, his thumb brushing tenderly along your jaw, the gesture slow and deliberate before he finally leans in and presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft, reverent—like he’s afraid to startle you again, like the moment itself is fragile. His lips linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and when he finally pulls back, there’s a faint flush on your cheeks, your brows knitting in the most adorably puzzled way.

“Not that I mind,” you murmur, voice small and sweet, “but… what brought that on?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek as though to smooth away your frown. “You,” he says simply, his voice low and steady—like he’s sharing a secret meant only for you.

Your brows crease again, as though you don’t quite understand, but the confusion is already giving way to a shy, fluttering smile tugging at your lips. You open your mouth to say something—maybe to question him again—but before you can, Geto's hand shifts to the back of your neck, pulling you into him once more.

The second kiss is deeper, more certain.

There’s no urgency, no rush in the way his lips move against yours—only a quiet resolve, as though he’s pouring every unspoken word, every feeling too fragile for language, into the press of his mouth. His hand remains at the back of your neck, anchoring you to him, holding you steady as the world narrows to just this moment, just the two of you, wrapped in the tender stillness of the room.

And in that stillness, as your lips yield to his, a thought unfurls in his mind—soft and undeniable: how impossibly lucky he is. That you’re here, that you’re his—to hold, to kiss, to love for the rest of his life.

general masterlist || geto suguru masterlist

#dividers by @inklore #geto x you #geto x reader #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #geto suguru #[my posts: geto suguru]

37 notes · View notes

batboysanonymous · 8 hours ago

Text

A Taste of Silence

*Not my image, all credit to the original creator*

Summary: Rhys's drunken words cut deeper than any blade, leaving Y/n questioning everything she thought she knew about their bond. As heartbreak and betrayal collide, she faces a choice that could shatter the fragile threads holding their world together.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The sun was setting behind the mountains of Velaris, casting a warm, golden glow over the City of Starlight. Y/N dismounted her horse with a wince, her muscles sore from the journey home. The mission Rhysand had sent her on had been grueling, stretching over several days, but she’d completed it with the determination and precision he’d come to rely on. She’d long since earned her place among the Inner Circle, proving time and again that she was more than just Rhys's mate—she was an integral part of his court.

Yet tonight, as she climbed the steps to the townhouse, exhaustion weighed heavy on her. Her bond with Rhys hummed faintly, a soft reminder of his presence as she opened the door. Laughter and the faint clink of glasses drifted from the sitting room, mingling with the scent of wine and smoke. She paused, her hand tightening on the doorknob.

The Inner Circle had gathered. Normally, the thought of reuniting with them after days apart would lift her spirits, but something about the atmosphere tonight felt… off.

She stepped inside, her movements quiet, and stopped just outside the doorway to the sitting room.

“—and she just doesn’t get it sometimes,” Rhysand’s voice rang out, slurred and slightly louder than usual. The unmistakable tone of drunkenness coiled in his words.

“She tries,” Mor said defensively, but Y/N could hear the restraint in her tone. “And she succeeds, Rhys. Far more than you give her credit for.”

“She makes everything harder,” Rhys countered, his laugh bitter. “Always asking questions, always needing to insert herself into things she doesn’t understand. Do you know how many times I’ve had to clean up after her?”

Y/N felt the breath leave her lungs. She leaned against the wall for support, her vision blurring as his words sank in.

“That’s not true,” Feyre said sharply. “Y/N has done nothing but prove herself over and over. You’re being unfair.”

“Am I?” Rhys pressed. “She doesn’t belong in this court, not like the rest of you. She’s… reckless. And it’s exhausting.”

“She’s your mate, Rhys,” Amren snapped, her voice cutting through the tension. “She’s part of this family. And you’re making a fool of yourself right now.”

Y/N’s chest ached, each word from Rhys like a dagger to the heart. The bond between them flared painfully, as if sensing her anguish. She wanted to storm in, to defend herself, to demand he explain how he could say such things after everything she’d sacrificed for him, for this court. But her body felt frozen, pinned by the weight of his betrayal.

Her hands trembled as she stepped back into the hallway, her breaths shallow. She couldn’t do this. Not tonight. She needed space, time to think, to process the heartbreak that threatened to consume her.

She turned toward the front door, intent on leaving, when a shadow shifted in the corner of the room. Azriel emerged, his piercing gaze meeting hers. His expression tightened as he took in her tear-filled eyes and trembling hands.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low and careful.

She shook her head, a silent plea for him to let her go. Azriel hesitated, his shadows curling around him like a shield, but he stepped aside. Without another word, Y/N slipped out the door and into the cool night air.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When the laughter in the sitting room died down, and the conversation shifted, Rhysand finally noticed the absence of a presence he hadn’t realized he’d been craving all night. He frowned, his drunken haze thinning just enough for the bond to nudge at his consciousness. It was too quiet.

“Where’s Y/N?” he asked, glancing around the room.

Silence greeted him.

Feyre’s lips pressed into a thin line. “She came home. She was standing in the hallway while you were… talking.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. His blood ran cold as realization sank in. “She heard me?”

Azriel’s dark gaze bore into him, his voice a quiet blade. “She heard everything.”

Rhysand shot to his feet, his heart pounding. He reached for the bond, but all he felt was a wall of pain and silence.

“Where is she?” he demanded, panic sharpening his tone.

Azriel crossed his arms. “Gone. She didn’t say where. She looked like she wanted to run as far from you as possible.”

Rhysand staggered back, his mind racing. The wine turned to bile in his stomach, his shame and regret coiling tighter with each passing second. He had to find her. Had to fix this.

But as he winnowed into the night, desperation clawing at him, one thought echoed in his mind.

He wasn’t sure if she’d ever let him fix it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Rhysand searched the city in a frenzy, the bond stretched taut with Y/N’s pain and his own spiraling guilt. He winnowed to every corner of Velaris, the glow of the stars above mocking his desperation. He tried to reach her through their bond, but her end was firmly shut—a silence louder than any scream.

“Damn it, Y/N,” he hissed under his breath as he scanned the Rainbow District. The cool night air did nothing to temper the heat of panic coursing through him.

Where would she go?

His mind raced, and finally, he stopped fighting the bond. Though she’d shut him out emotionally, he could still trace her faint physical presence, the residual pull that tied them together. When he caught the direction, his heart sank.

The forest.

The place where they’d once picnicked under the stars, where she’d whispered her dreams to him like secrets she trusted him to hold forever. The place she’d deemed her safe haven.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Winnowing to the clearing, Rhysand stumbled upon her sitting beneath the massive oak at its center. Moonlight danced across her tear-streaked face as she cradled her knees to her chest. She looked so small, so fragile, and it made his heart ache.

“Y/N,” he called softly, stepping closer.

She stiffened but didn’t look at him. “Go away, Rhys.”

Her voice, usually so vibrant, sounded hollow.

“I can’t,” he said, dropping to his knees a few feet from her. “Not like this.”

“Not like what?” she snapped, finally meeting his gaze. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her expression hard. “Not like the mess you made, Rhysand? Or not like the words you spewed about me to the people I consider family?”

He flinched at the venom in her voice. “I was drunk, Y/N. I—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off sharply. “Don’t use that as an excuse. Drunk or not, you said what you meant.”

He reached out as if to touch her, but she leaned away, her walls firmly in place. The bond between them hummed weakly, a pale reflection of what it once was.

“You’re right,” he admitted, his voice raw. “I said those things. But I didn’t mean them—not the way they came out. I was an idiot, and I—”

“Stop,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You said I make everything harder. That I don’t belong. So, I’ll make it easy for you.”

His heart dropped. “Y/N, please don’t—”

“No,” she said firmly, standing up. She towered over him, her presence fierce despite the anguish etched into her face. “You wanted me to stay out of things I don’t understand? Fine. I won’t ask questions anymore. I won’t ‘insert myself’ into your precious plans. I’ll do exactly what you want, Rhys. I’ll disappear into the background, a perfect little shadow in your court.”

His chest tightened painfully as her words sank in. “That’s not what I want.”

“Isn’t it?” she challenged, her voice rising. “Because it’s exactly what you said, Rhysand. And for once, I’m giving you exactly what you asked for.”

She turned on her heel and began walking away, her shoulders trembling with restrained emotion.

Rhys scrambled to his feet, following her. “You’re twisting this! I don’t want you to disappear, Y/N. I need you. I was a fool to say those things, but you—”

“But nothing,” she snapped, spinning back around to face him. “You don’t get to need me only when it’s convenient, Rhys. You don’t get to humiliate me and then expect me to act like it didn’t happen. I gave you everything—my loyalty, my love, my trust. And you threw it in my face.”

The weight of her words was crushing, and he couldn’t bring himself to argue. She was right.

“I’ll come home,” she said after a long silence, her voice quieter now but no less firm. “Because Velaris is my home, and the Inner Circle is my family. But you…” Her breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought she might cry. Instead, she steadied herself. “You are no longer my priority, Rhysand. If you want my forgiveness, you’re going to have to earn it. Every. Single. Day.”

With that, she winnowed away, leaving him standing in the empty clearing, the bond between them a cold echo of what it used to be.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Back at the townhouse, Y/N strode in with her head held high, her expression blank. The Inner Circle, still gathered in the sitting room, fell silent as she entered.

“Y/N,” Feyre started, but Y/N held up a hand.

“I’m fine,” she said tightly. “I just need some rest.”

They watched her ascend the stairs, none of them daring to stop her.

Moments later, Rhysand appeared in the doorway, his face pale, his steps heavy as he entered the room.

“She didn’t forgive you, did she?” Mor said quietly, her arms crossed.

He shook his head, his throat tightening. “No.”

“And she shouldn’t,” Amren said coldly, her sharp eyes narrowing. “Not until you prove you deserve it.”

Rhysand said nothing, the truth of her words settling like a stone in his gut.

As he made his way upstairs, he stopped outside their bedroom door. His hand hovered over the handle, but he didn’t go in. He could feel her inside, her grief and anger rippling through their bond.

For the first time in centuries, the High Lord of the Night Court felt powerless.

And he deserved every second of it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The days following that fateful night were a study in contrasts for the Night Court. Y/N returned to her duties, carrying herself with a grace and efficiency that made it impossible to find fault in her actions. She was polished, precise, and perfect—exactly what Rhysand had drunkenly claimed she wasn’t.

Rhys felt the weight of her words in everything she did, a pointed reminder of how deeply he had wronged her.

“You wanted me to disappear into the background,” she had said. And she did.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Y/N began arriving precisely on time to every meeting, her notes already prepared, her insights delivered in a calm, detached manner. She offered no questions, no debates, just the bare necessities required of her position.

“Any thoughts, Y/N?” Rhys asked one afternoon during a strategy meeting with the Inner Circle.

She met his gaze for the briefest of moments, her expression unreadable. “None, my lord. I’ll carry out the plan as outlined.”

The title, usually reserved for formal settings, felt like a slap to his face. Rhys clenched his jaw, watching her retreat into herself. The warmth she used to bring into the room, the way her laughter used to lighten even the heaviest of conversations, was absent.

“I think this plan could use some fine-tuning,” Cassian interjected, attempting to draw Y/N out.

“I trust the High Lord’s judgment,” she replied coolly, gathering her papers. “If that’s all, I’ll begin preparations immediately.”

She left the room without looking back, leaving a heavy silence in her wake.

“She’s killing you,” Mor said after a moment, her tone uncharacteristically sharp.

“She’s killing herself,” Amren corrected, her silver eyes narrowing. “But only because he killed her first.”

Rhys lowered his head, guilt an anchor in his chest. “I deserve this,” he muttered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

“And then some,” Feyre added softly, though her voice carried an edge of sympathy.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

At home, Y/N’s silence was even more deafening. She no longer sat beside him on the couch, opting for the farthest seat in the room. She no longer joined him for late-night talks, instead retreating to her private quarters with a book or a report.

Even when they shared the same bed, she was miles away. She would slip under the covers after he’d pretended to fall asleep, her body curled tightly on the far edge of the mattress. The bond between them, once a vibrant tether of love and warmth, was now a fragile thread, stretched so thin it felt ready to snap.

Rhys tried everything he could think of. He filled her favorite garden with fresh blooms, sent her favorite meals to her office, even wrote her letters apologizing for his thoughtless words.

Each attempt was met with polite acknowledgment but no real response.

“I don’t need gifts, Rhysand,” she said one evening when he’d tried to present her with a rare necklace from one of his travels. Her voice was calm but firm. “I need respect. I need trust. And I need time.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Weeks passed like this, each day a slow torture. The bond hummed faintly with her sadness, but it was muffled, guarded, as though she was shielding herself from him entirely.

One night, Rhys found her in the library, poring over mission reports. She looked so tired, her usually radiant features shadowed with exhaustion.

“Y/N,” he began hesitantly, leaning against the doorframe.

She didn’t look up. “What do you need, Rhys?”

“I need you to talk to me,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I need to know how to fix this.”

She finally raised her eyes to meet his, and he wished she hadn’t. The emptiness in her gaze was a knife to his heart.

“You want to fix this?” she asked, her tone devoid of emotion. “Then prove to me that I’m more than just a burden to you. Show me that I’m not some inconvenient addition to your perfect court.”

“I never thought you were—”

“Stop,” she interrupted, her voice rising for the first time in weeks. She stood, the papers in her hands trembling. “You did, Rhysand. You said it yourself. And I believed you. I believed every word.”

Her admission was like a punch to the gut, and Rhys took a shaky step forward. “I didn’t mean it, Y/N. I swear on the Mother, I didn’t mean it.”

“But you said it,” she whispered, tears finally spilling over. “And that’s the part I can’t forget.”

She brushed past him, leaving him standing alone in the library, her tears the only sound echoing in the empty space.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next morning, Y/N was back to her unshakable, distant self. She attended meetings, completed her missions with flawless precision, and maintained an icy professionalism that left no room for personal connection.

But Rhys noticed the way she avoided his gaze, the way her laughter no longer filled the halls, the way she barely touched the bond between them.

She was giving him exactly what he’d drunkenly demanded: distance, detachment, and silence.

And it was killing him.

One evening, Feyre found him sitting alone in the dining room, a glass of wine untouched in his hand.

“She’ll come back to you,” Feyre said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Rhys shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not unless I can prove to her that I’m worth coming back to.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It wasn’t until a particularly grueling mission left Y/N injured that the walls finally cracked.

She stumbled into the townhouse late at night, her arm bleeding and her face pale. Rhys was on her in an instant, his heart pounding as he helped her to the couch.

“Why didn’t you call for me?” he demanded, his hands glowing with healing light as he tended to her wounds.

“I didn’t think you’d want to clean up another one of my messes,” she said flatly, her words cutting deeper than any injury.

Rhys froze, his hands trembling. “Y/N, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” she snapped, her exhaustion finally breaking through her calm exterior. “Don’t remind you of the words you threw at me like knives? Don’t make you feel guilty for the way you shattered me?”

Her voice broke on the last word, and Rhys felt his own tears slipping free. “I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you,” he whispered. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it right if you’ll let me.”

Y/N stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she shook her head, her voice soft but firm.

“I need more than words, Rhysand. I need actions. I need time. And I need to believe that you truly see me as your equal, not as someone you have to clean up after.”

He nodded, his heart aching. “You have my word, Y/N. I’ll prove it to you.”

She said nothing more, retreating to her room and leaving Rhys alone once again.

But this time, he felt the faintest flicker of hope.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

#acotarxreader #batboys x reader #slow burn #angst #rhysandxreader #sarah j maas #acotar #tension #x reader #oneshot #rhysand #high lord of the night court #night court

24 notes · View notes

dsireland86 · 2 days ago

Note

Ooh Can you please make a Matt x reader fic inspired by True Love by P!nk? I heard this song and immediately thought of him

Yes! This song screams Matt!!

True Love (yeah, right)

Tag list:

@philomenie @supersquirrel1996 @foliosgirl @angelmarie89 @fadingintothegrey @thisbicc @lacy1986 @dominuslunae @shayzillaaaa @mrsnoahsebastian @flowery-mess @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @stardustsirenmelody @romanreigns-supreme @anything-more-than-human @into-the-grey @rumoured-whispers @myownthoughts12 @sister-sebastian @missduffsblog @bngurngheart @somebodyllelse @xxkittenkissesxx @dizzylmwahh @Youlookforultraviolet @kenjipepsi1 @blackveilomens @chey-h @disappearintothegrey @jilliemiw86 @pathion @fear-its-beauty

I'd had enough. Matt was on my last nerve and had been pissing me off all week, and now, I was at my wits end. Every single stupid thing he said drove me to the brink of madness, and I just wanted to slap the crap out of him or, even better, choke him to death.

"Y/N! Really?" I was talking to Jolly when I heard my boyfriend yell my name. Slowly, I turned around to face him, trying my best not to raise my voice back at him, but the look on Matt's face dug the knife a little deeper into my side. "What's your problem now, Dierkes?" Matt locked an eyebrow. "Oh, last name basis now, is it?" I folded my arms over my chest and clenched my jaw. "What do you want?" "You forgot to grab the bag that has all the connectors for the cables and wires for tonight! How am I supposed to set up sound equipment when I don't have everything I need?"

I shook my head and rolled my eyes, stomping over to the pile of Matt's electronic crap in search of the bag I was looking for. "Why aren't you freaking responsible for your crap, Matt?" I yelled, growling in frustration when I couldn't find the bag either. "I am. Just sometimes I need an extra pair of eyes. I don't understand how a bag can just vanish. I put the damn bag with the other crap yesterday morning before everything was packed up." "You mean this bag right here?" I said, the irritation thick in my tone. I tossed a red canvas bag at Matt's feet, huffing loudly as I did so. He just stared at it at first, then slowly looked up at me. "I swear it wasn't there when I looked." I rolled my eyes. "I'm not your mother, Matt. I'm your girlfriend. Treat me like it."

Matt gave me the sweetest grin that just infuriated me to the core. "But I do. All the time." Matt and I just stared at each other for a minute, both of us knowing he was lying. Finally, I'd had enough. "Eat shit, Matt," I said, hoping the venom in my tone was felt. "Whoa! What the fuck? Really?" Glancing at him, I wanted nothing more right then to avoid Matt like the plague. I stomped off, going to the bathroom to cool off.

An hour or so later, Matt came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. The warmth of his body and the feeling of him holding me securely against his chest felt so good. For the first time today, I felt loved and wanted. But I wasn't going to let him know that.

"Let go of me. I'm still pissed off at you." Matt nuzzled his nose in my neck. "I told you, we can be mad at each other while I touch you." I shivered, my body igniting to life the moment he drug his nose and lips down the side of my neck. "I'm sorry." Matt's apology was sincere. It always was every time he came around to his senses and realized what an ass he was being. I followed his hands as they traveled down the front of me, hooking around the inside of my thighs and then over the central part of my core that was already burning for him and when he touched me, I couldn't help but whimper.

"Why are you so mean to me?" "I’m mean? That's rich coming from you," Matt chuckled, nipping the outer part of my ear and causing me to clench my thighs together. "Why do you love me?" He hummed, thinking for a moment, while guiding his hands up and down my thighs and over my bottom.

I was craving his touch, needing it like I needed the air I breathe, so desperately aching for it. "Because the idea of not loving you or falling out of love with you scares the shit out of me." His lips trailed down my neck, lightly sucking the skin beneath his tongue. "Because loving you is like breathing. I can't stop." I loved Matt, despite everything. He was the only love I'd ever known, the first guy to fall head over heels in love with me. Even though we bickered and argued and wondered why we stayed together half of the time because of the stupidest shit, even though nothing else could ever break my heart like him, I knew I could never do life without him.

"Can you please try not to be so mean?" I begged him, following his hands as they moved closer to the inside of my leggings. "What if I don't want to? What if I like it too much?" "But I know you can do it, Matty," I smiled, rutting my bottom against the hardened bulge pressing against it. He sucked in a breath, hissing quietly from the feeling. "I know you know how to romance me and make me want you." He glided his mouth over the skin of my jaw and neck while pulling. "But I thought I was mean?" "You are, but so am I." Matt cupped my breast, squeezing them just right so that I tossed my head back against his shoulder. "Must be true love then, huh?" "Must be," I chuckled, placing my hands over top of his. "I love you, Matty." "I love you too, baby."

Turning my head just the right way, our mouths found each other's, tongues colliding. I reached behind me and tangled my hand in Matt's hair, letting go of every angry and bitter feeling. "I want to touch you," he whispered against my lips, making my knees almost buckle below me. "I want to feel what's mine, what's always been mine. Please." Matt's pleas made me weak in every sense of the word. I couldn't deny him, no matter how hard I tried. Turning around to face him, Matt was undeniably the cutest, with his dopey little smile and puppy dog eyes. I knew that fighting with him halftime meant that we really were in love with each other. "Right here? What if someone sees us?" Matt caught my lips in another heated kiss as he slowly began pulling my leggings down. "Then we'll have to be quiet," he smiled, lifting me up and sitting me on the table of his front of house work station.

My breath caught in the back of my throat the moment he pulled my leggings completely off, tossing them to the floor and pushing my legs apart. I leaned back on the palms of my hands, giving Matt complete access to any part of me he wanted. "God you're so fucking wet, baby," he sighed, running a finger over my heated sex. "Feels so good." I kept my eyes on him, and gasped, gripping his shoulders the moment he slowly thrusted his finger up inside of me, twisting the deeper he went. "Matt, fuck," I whined. His eyes met mine and I saw the dark hunger in them right before he slammed his lips on mine, continuing his wanted assault inside of me. I devoured him, cupping his face to keep him against me. Matt responded to my small gasp of pleasure with a low growl of approval of his own. "Are you okay," I breathed against his lips, holding onto his shoulders. "Just keep kissing me," he managed to strangle out. "I want you so much." I shivered. "You do?" He pulled back to look at me. "So fucking much." My hands snaked up under Matt's shirt, lifting his arms so I could pull it off of him. Running my hands down his chest, I fumbled with the waistband of his shorts, smiling when he got the hint. He quickly pulled down his shorts, exposing his fully hard cock to me. The soft, pink tip was moist with precum, making my mouth water at just the thought of it inside me. "Make me cum, Matty," I said quietly, reaching over and taking his tip between my fingers. The stickiness of his juices were calling to me, so one by one I slipped them into my and tasted him, watching his face as I did.

"Oh my, fuck," Matt groaned, yanking me down closer, aligning himself with my entrance. It was only seconds before he was thrusting into me, slowly, spreading my walls as his cock forced its way sweetly deeper inside me, making me moan. "I thought I told you we had to be quiet?" Matt said through a breathless thrust. "How can I when you're fucking me like this?" Our eyes met and a wide smile spread across his face. "I wanted to be a gentleman about all of this, but I guess I can't right now." "Don't be a gentleman right now," I said, touching his face and running my thumb over his lips. "Fuck your frustration out on me. I can't take it. Hard and fast, baby." Matt's chest rose up in down fast, and I could see the throbbing of his pulse against his neck. "You're going to be the death of me," he winced, clenching his jaw. "Then die while inside me. Please Matt; I need you to make me cum." Spreading my legs wide opened, forcing me to grip the table for dear life, Matt did just what I begged him to do. It was powerful, watching him take me the way he was, knowing I was satisfying him completely in all the ways a woman could. I tried my best to be quiet, but there were moments when he would hit the right spot that I just couldn't hold back the tight, high pitched moan. The building tension building in my lower abdomen, the heat pooling in my lower back, had me cursing under my breath. "God, you sweet little pussy was made just for me, baby, look at how well you're taking me." I managed to look down to watch Matt going in and out of me, and it had me crying out in heated pleasure. "Matt, oh fuck. I'm about to cum, baby. Oh god Matty, fuck! You're making me cum," I cried, unable to hold back the sensation any longer. "Harder, baby! Yes, fuck Matty, just like that! Fuck...fff..." screaming into my hand as my orgasm crashed into me, forcing me to tighten around Matt's cock, squeezing him as I clenched my inner muscles. "I wanna cum inside you, baby," Matt panted, his thrusts getting sloppier. "Then cum in me. Fill me." He grunted, a low deep growl following after as I felt the warmth of his seed fill me. Matt collapsed into me, letting his head rest against my shoulder. We were both out of breath, panting as we chased our high, coming back down together.

"I fucking love you. Every little stupid, frustrating thing about you," Matt confessed, leaning up and looking at me. His soft brown eyes were blissfully happy, reflecting the way he was feeling on the inside; all because of me. I pulled him in for a kiss, throwing my arms around his neck. "Me too. You're my favorite person. You may be an asshole most of the time, but you're my asshole, and I'm glad I'm the only one who gets to see your soft, sweet little moments like this one." Matt laughed, caressing my face. "True love, right?" I smiled and kissed him again. "Must be," I replied, laying my head against his chest.

#matt dierkes fanfiction #matt dierkes fanfic #bad omens #bad omens cult #bad omens band #bad omens fanfiction #matt dierkes

33 notes · View notes

gottencents · 1 day ago

Text

013: a angel has fell in love [ Epilogue]

synopsis. SM Entertainment would’ve loved for FALLEN ANGELS and aespa to never share a stage — especially with Chanel possibly "corrupting" their prized “it girl,” Karina.

____________ ____________ ________ ____________

The sun had fully risen now, filling the room with a gentle warmth that contrasted with the quiet stillness between them. Chanel lay close to Karina, her body pressed gently against hers as they both soaked in the morning’s peaceful energy. The soft rays of light that spilled through the window caught on Karina’s dark hair, highlighting the delicate features of her face. Chanel watched her quietly, a sense of contentment washing over her as she admired the woman beside her.

Karina stirred slightly, her brow furrowing in that way that made Chanel smile every time she saw it. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, everything else faded. Karina’s sleepy gaze met Chanel’s, and a tender smile formed on her lips—one that made Chanel’s heart skip a beat.

“Good morning,” Karina murmured softly, her voice thick with sleep but smooth nonetheless. Her voice, though still sleepy, held a warmth that made Chanel feel entirely seen and loved.

“Good morning,” Chanel whispered back, her voice no louder than the hum of the world outside the window.

The room was still, save for the quiet sounds of nature—a soft rustling of leaves, the distant hum of morning traffic, and the steady rhythm of their breathing. It was a moment suspended in time, neither rushed nor forced. It felt intimate, electric in its simplicity, as though the air between them held some unspoken magic.

The night before had been special, just as Chanel had hoped it would be. She had spent hours preparing dinner—homemade dishes that were admittedly clumsier than she had anticipated, but Karina didn’t mind. It was the thought that counted, and in Chanel’s mind, it was perfect.

Every glance exchanged, every laugh shared, every quiet touch had deepened their connection in ways Chanel hadn’t expected. She found herself falling deeper into Karina’s presence, a feeling that wasn’t new but felt infinitely more significant with each passing moment.

Karina had been her usual effortlessly charming self—the way she smiled when she talked about the simplest things, how her voice softened when she laughed at Chanel’s dorky comments. It was those little things, those small quirks, that made Chanel fall harder with every passing second.

“Do you remember when we first started dating?” Chanel asked, her voice floating through the quiet air, breaking the stillness.

“Of course,” Karina replied easily, squeezing Chanel’s hand gently. “How could I forget? You were a mess.”

Chanel rolled her eyes playfully, giggling softly. “A mess? Really?”

“Yes, a cute mess,” Karina added with a smirk, tilting her head slightly as she looked at Chanel. “But you’ve always been my favorite kind.”

Chanel blushed, a quiet warmth settling deep within her chest. “You always know what to say,” she teased.

“It’s not hard when you’re the one I want to talk to all the time,” Karina said softly, brushing a strand of Chanel’s hair back behind her ear.

Chanel felt her heart swell with the sweetness of the moment. Her fingers traced slow circles on Karina’s hand, her touch gentle. “You know,” she began hesitantly, “I wasn’t very good at this before.”

“At what?”

“Being in a relationship,” Chanel admitted with a soft laugh. “I used to think that love was supposed to be this grand, overwhelming thing—like it’s supposed to sweep you off your feet or something. But it’s not. Not with you, anyway.”

Karina studied her carefully, her expression gentle and understanding. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Chanel said slowly, “I thought love was supposed to be these big moments, these huge gestures that scream ‘look at me.’ But with you… it’s the little things that matter more. It’s waking up next to you, or the way you smile when you catch me staring. It’s those moments that make me feel whole.”

Karina’s gaze softened, and she pressed a light kiss to Chanel’s temple. “You’re perfect just as you are, Chanel. Every part of you.”

Chanel let out a soft sigh, leaning into the kiss. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

Karina pulled back slightly, a small smile playing on her lips. “So,” she started, her voice laced with amusement, “are we just going to sit here being sappy, or do I get a proper good morning kiss?”

Chanel couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling out of her naturally. “You’re impossible,” she said playfully.

“Come on,” Karina said softly, leaning in again. Her lips brushed lightly against Chanel’s in a tender, lingering kiss—slow and deliberate, conveying the depth of her emotions in a way that words never truly could.

Chanel’s breath hitched, her hands resting lightly on Karina’s cheeks. It was simple, and yet it spoke volumes. Every second felt like time was slowing down, every touch amplified by the quiet intimacy they shared.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads rested together, and the space between them felt sacred. “I love you,” Karina whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Chanel smiled, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Forever,” she whispered back.

The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over their small apartment. Chanel moved around the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she finished preparing dinner. Karina lounged on the couch, scrolling through her phone, but her attention was always on Chanel, her heart full with every small, tender movement.

“You’ve been humming that same tune for like, an hour,” Karina teased, setting her phone down on the coffee table.

Chanel giggled, glancing over her shoulder with a playful smile. “It’s the only thing that fits the vibe,” she said, stirring the sauce on the stove.

Karina tilted her head, watching her with that soft, affectionate gaze that Chanel had come to love so much. “What vibe is that exactly?”

Chanel smiled, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “The ‘I’m cooking for my amazing girlfriend’ vibe.”

Karina couldn’t help but laugh at her dorky little declaration. “You’re too cute, babe,” she murmured, crossing the room to stand behind Chanel. She wrapped her arms around Chanel’s waist, pulling her close for a gentle hug.

Chanel leaned back into her, letting out a content sigh. “You deserve all the cute things,” she said softly.

Karina pressed a kiss to the side of Chanel’s head, the touch lingering longer than usual. “You’re way too sweet for your own good,” she whispered.

As the dinner settled on the table, the atmosphere in the room became more intimate. They talked quietly about their day—small moments from work, silly interactions, and future plans. There was no rush, no pressure to fill the silence with anything but their shared presence.

After they finished eating, Chanel grabbed a blanket from the living room, draping it over their laps as they sat side by side on the couch. The soft hum of a favorite playlist played quietly in the background, creating a cozy ambiance.

“Do you ever think about how different things were a year ago?” Karina asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Chanel gave her a soft smile. “All the time,” she admitted. “It feels like we’ve grown so much together.”

Karina intertwined their fingers, giving Chanel’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You’ve helped me grow too,” she said quietly. “I never imagined feeling this way, and now I can’t imagine not feeling it.”

Chanel squeezed back, her heart full of warmth. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed,” she murmured.

A shy smile tugged at Karina’s lips as she leaned in slightly, her eyes locked on Chanel’s. “I love you, you know.”

Chanel’s breath hitched for a moment. “I know,” she whispered, her voice catching. “I love you too, Karina.”

There was a pause between them—just a quiet, intimate moment where time seemed to stop. Karina tilted her head slightly, her lips brushing softly against Chanel’s. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t frantic—it was gentle, tender, full of meaning. Chanel melted into the kiss, her heart pounding gently in her chest as everything else faded away.

When they pulled back slightly, their foreheads pressed together, Karina whispered, “You’re my home.”

Chanel smiled, her eyes shining with affection. “And you’re mine.”

The evening stretched on, filled with small touches, shared laughter, and conversations that flowed effortlessly. They didn’t need anything grand—just the simple presence of one another was enough. And as the stars began to peek out through the window, Chanel felt a warmth settle deep in her chest.

They were exactly where they were meant to be.

____________ ____________ ________ ____________

Taglist ( closed ) : @saysirhc @awkwardtoafault @yjiminswallet @gtfoiydlyj @1luvkarina @womanl0ver @hazel-tanthamore22 @deuxae @arihiu @spidrgamer @goofymickeyr

#cents works #aespa #smau #aespa smau #aespa x reader #yu jimin #yu jimin x reader #karina #karina x reader

32 notes · View notes

shadowww-bunny · 8 hours ago

Text

「Wasted」 (Dean Winchester/fem!reader)

❥ You're drowning out your feelings with alcohol again, as if it's supposed to make a difference.

❥ unspoken feelings, hurt/comfort

-------------------------------------⟡---------------------------------------

You watch as the door closes behind Dean, leaving you alone in a dim motel room. Again. A familiar aching feeling in your chest grips you when you look into an empty hallway.

It wasn't part of your life plan to fall in love with an arrogant guy in a leather jacket, but here you are, sitting and thinking about him while he's probably having fun with girls in a bar. It was a level of pain you weren't used to. Will he ever treat you the same way he treats other girls? Will he ever look at you with the same admiration and adoration that you look at him?

Eventually, your hand reaches for the fridge by itself when you take out a bottle of whiskey. As if it would automatically solve all your problems. As if that would change anything. You pour yourself a glass and lose track of time.

Dean returns to the motel after midnight with his usual smirk on his lips and humming a tune. He tries to walk quietly so as not to disturb you in case you are already in bed, but when he saw you in the kitchen, surprise and slight concern flashed in his emerald eyes.

You sat hunched over with your head on the table. Your hair hid your face, and your fingers twitched nervously even in your sleep. You looked so small and vulnerable, nothing like the cheerful and witty version Dean was used to seeing.

He came closer and his gaze fell on the bottle of whiskey. Everything was clear now. In any other situation, Dean would have teased you, but right now he wasn't up to it. You've never been drunk out of your mind.

"Baby…?" Dean's hand gently rested on your back, stroking and trying to wake you up. Noticing that you moved and raised your head, rubbing your eyes, a faint smile appeared on the hunter's lips. "Rough night, huh?"

Dean's voice brought you back to reality. Dean was here and looked at you with such tenderness in his eyes that it seemed to you that you were still asleep. And you didn't want to wake up.

There were so many things you wanted to say, but a lump formed in your throat, and you just looked at Dean, as if hoping that it would be enough for him to understand. Your gaze was unfocused, and there was a mix of emotions in your eyes. Guilt, fatigue, chagrin, and something deeper that made Dean`s heart ache.

"Oh,sweetheart, do you have any idea how much your head will hurt in the morning? You could have waited for me before you wanted a drink." He tried to make a joke, but the worry in his words gave him away.

The hunter sighed and pulled you by the arm, trying to get you to your feet. He decided it was better to put you to bed before you passed out at this table, or worse, decided to continue emptying the bottle.

You stood up, without any resistance and the desire to resist. However, you were too drunk, and almost immediately you would have swayed and almost fallen if it hadn't been for Dean, who caught you in time, picking you up.

"That's it, I'm here, I got you." The hunter grinned. "It seems like it's really time for someone to go to bed."

He hugged you so tightly and at the same time gently that you wanted to melt in his arms. Alcohol has already clouded your mind and your thoughts have drifted far away. The remnants of restraint and self-control flew out the window when Dean was so close and all the feelings that you had been suppressing for so long poured out. You wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to his shirt like a lifeline, as if his arms were the only thing keeping you from breaking down.

"Shhh…I got you, baby." Hunter whispered, and caught himself thinking about how adorable you look when you snuggle up to him like a touch-starved kitten.

He went into the bedroom, still holding you in his arms and was about to put you down in bed when he felt your grip on his sleeve. Your eyes were already closed, you were almost asleep, but the words involuntarily escaped your lips.

"I love you." Your hand slowly slipped off Dean's arm, and fatigue took over, plunging you into sleep.

You didn't see how Dean's eyes widened, how his heart skipped a beat, and his lips parted. For a moment, the hunter froze, trying to comprehend what you said. He had the urge to write it off as drunken nonsense, but your voice and look seemed so sincere.

The hunter hesitated, not knowing how to react to your confession, which made him feel a strange warmth in his chest. You were still his best friend, right..? Despite logic and common sense, Dean bent down and lightly touched your forehead with his lips.

"Love you too, baby."

He knew he probably shouldn't have done it, and you couldn't hear him anyway, but for some reason he felt the need to say it.

Dean covered you with a blanket and hurriedly left the room before his mind started wandering after your last words.

#hurt/comfort #unspoken feelings #spnfandom #spn fanfic #supernatural #dean x reader #dean winchester #dean winchester x you #fanfic #fem!reader #spn dean winchester

19 notes · View notes

cleavetheclover · 20 hours ago

Text

One of the reasons i ship cyphmen is that i think cypher has a lot of empathy for omen in a place where most of the other agents can only really show sympathy

Starting out, omen knew nothing about who he was and where he came from and how he even came to be in the first place, so that’s what he becomes— nothing. Just a lingering shadow a few steps behind Viper at all times.

I think it would just get to him a lot of the time, namely in the forms of frustration and grief

And i think cypher would understand that.

The cypher i hold in my head is one who lost everything just before he came to Valorant. He came there because nowhere else is safe. He thought of himself as Prometheus but in reality was an Icarus, who reached the height of his power before having it all collapse beneath him.

(Of course Cypher never admits this aloud to Omen, at least not in the beginning of their friendship, because that would mean admitting that his presence in Valorant is a defensive move and that he’s vulnerable.)

Either way, Cypher knows what its like to be no one and have nothing to live for and nowhere else to go. The only difference is that where Omen doesn’t know about his past, Cypher does know about his own, and yet in the end neither of them can return to their pasts.

They’re both trying to rebuild themselves. A new name, a new face, new presence— they are trying to live past the respective messes they began with when they joined Valorant on day one.

Their stories intertwine and sort of rhyme in this way, and i find that beautiful

#this is sort of the core theme of ‘Stained Glass Variation of the Truth’#im def gonna change the name of that fic tho #one bc its a song lyric and two bc its a fuckin mouthful #maybe like ‘crawling out of the grave’ or something #‘we must claw our way back up to the light’ would be fun but thats a sage line not cypher or omen lol #‘to claw oneself out of a corpse’#idk whatever some death and rebirth thing yada yada #ill think of a better title later #cyphmen #shadowire #cypher/omen

17 notes · View notes

vidavalor · 2 days ago

Note

Look at all these lovely details to ponder! 😍

re: the wedding ring--

I mean, I know you'll be as surprised as I am to find that there's not much info on how pregnancy works in fictional supernatural bird angel humans 😂 but, given the effort in the story to show how human the supernatural characters are, I'm assuming that it's probably not much different from human pregnancy. Conceivably, this could mean that Aziraphale would have been pregnant for months and, while he probably kept a low profile during that time, he'd likely have to leave the bookshop at some point.

To be an unmarried and pregnant in the 1920s was the height of scandal. To avoid issues in the human world, he'd have had to wear a wedding ring. The height of irony, right, since neither the supernatural world nor the human world he was living in would recognize him and Crowley as married. (We're possibly circling towards the same rationale behind "Mr. Fell" here where taking a version of The Fallen as his last name was the closest Aziraphale thought they'd ever get to being married.) But Maggie's great-grandmother's ring had to come from somewhere and can't you just see Crowley showing up at the bookshop with that ring? Not exactly a proposal because they can't so it's just for practicality, just when he goes out while he's pregnant, just for safety, etc..

How long did Aziraphale keep it before he passed it down to their family? Did Maggie get it from one of her relatives or did Aziraphale maybe pretend he found some of her great-grandmother's things when cleaning out some old papers of his relatives in the bookshop one day?

There's also Maggie wearing two chains around her neck all the time and one of them being a wedding ring at the same time as there's also her paralleling great-everything, Crowley, who has been wearing the same tied knot necklace everyday since sometime after same-sex civil partnerships became legal in England.

Loved the things you brought in about the stuff on the necklaces! Lots to ponder there. Toucans, for whatever reason, also have had a demonic association in history. People were kind of afraid of them at times and said they contained the spirits of demons, as people often say about things they don't understand. There's also some etymology tied to one of their alternate names that translates as "beak of the fish", which is pretty Crowley & Aziraphale.

The "all-seeing eye" in a heart is a good luck and protection charm said to ward off evil and it's also an image that sometimes is part of a fuller picture where the all-seeing eye in heart is in a fruit tree. Very Crowley & Aziraphale again.

I still think the freemasonry is more of a wordplay thing because of how it's used in the Gabriel scene in The Resurrectionist. A mason is a builder, one who works to make things out of stone, but you can build both your own trap just as much as you build your own life. A free mason is one who is designing their own path and Gabriel was doing that in that scene. He is a free mason, even if he's not a Freemason. Eden & Aziraphale & the stone wall, the brick through the bookshop; burning down the M-25; recognizing that Gabriel is more than the stone statue of himself. Something about recognizing freedom through recognizing one another-- the all-seeing eye as part of the theme of recognition more than a conspiratorial thing.

I loved the plants you brought up with heart-shaped leaves. Silphium mention! Lotus plants have them, too. There is also an etymology connection there, too. The words leaf, leave, lief, belief, believe, etc. all share a root and have overlapping history with the word love. We're sitting on edge of a scene in which Crowley and Aziraphale first kissed under the leaves of a tree canopy that etymologically are interwoven with love because of course we are. 😊

I'm curious, What do you think Aziraphale and Crowley were doing during The Great Depression??

Wading their way through great depressions of a more personal nature, brought on by giving away their infant child-- Maggie's eventual grandmother-- to be adopted and raised by a human couple.

I mean, you want me to believe that Aziraphale let a random human woman start a record shop in his bookshop in the heyday of records when shops like that were crazy busy? The same Aziraphale who opens the bookshop for fifteen minutes every other Wednesday? 😂 The one whose bookshop is really a cover for his house and is also an angelic embassy... he can't have some human woman running another shop in there! And why ever would he when he owns the land for most of the street? Wouldn't he just get this woman her own retail space on the street, like he has been helping people do for centuries?

Then, there's that Aziraphale thinks it possible that Maggie should be able to sense the arrival of the angels the same way that he does. This can't just be because Maggie is musically-inclined. I mean... he thinks she might be able to hear or feel the angels arriving...

Presumably, that'd only be possible if Maggie's lineage involved angels... which is then when it might become notable that our lovely Maggie looks like if you gave Aziraphale Crowley's nose and mouth.

The record shop got started in the bookshop in the 1920s, alright... probably on some rainy night when a pair of old lovers who also happened to be supernatural human entities felt in the mood for the kind of love that could, technically, begin a whole other shop. They got a bit of a surprise when, a few weeks later, Aziraphale started being even more nauseous at daybreak than he usually is.

Aziraphale having Crowley's child in the late 1920s might also help to explain why he canonically developed a side hustle at some point where he was a music tutor. Yes, we know he loves music, but what better way to have an excuse to see their child without them ever knowing who he was than to be their music teacher? What better way to then happen to be in their world to eventually suggest when they became an adult that they might like to open a record shop in the spot next to the bookshop? You know that Crowley would pretend he wouldn't want to get too attached but would be subtly watching over their family just as much as Aziraphale.

There's also that Maggie already knows Crowley in S2. We never see a scene of them being introduced but, when Crowley is sent to fetch her for The Meeting Ball, it's established that she knows him and also established that her context for knowing him is that she sees him as Aziraphale's person, which he's aware of, as it's his dialogue ("he says to tell you...") that illustrates this. Crowley's already met Maggie before and there's this whole short scene where one of the main purposes of its existence seems to be just to show us that:

We think that no one on Whickber Street but for Mrs. Sandwich really knows about Crowley and Aziraphale but that's not quite true-- it seems like Maggie also does. Presumably, Maggie knowing that Mr. Fell is seeing The Ginger Goth (in addition to entertaining naked Don Draper stripadeliveragrams before he's even finished his morning coffee lol) is one of the reasons why she asked him for advice after feeling like she'd failed to connect with Nina.

Based on how Maggie later seems to think that Nina could be correct in her assessment of Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship, Maggie likely doesn't know the extent of it. She adores Aziraphale and knows that he's seeing Crowley but she also thinks they're human and clearly has no idea about their real history, let alone how she fits into it.

Maggie and Nina seem to see Crowley and Aziraphale as queer humans in their 50s who grew up in more closeted times, are commitment-phobic, and are secretly in love with each other but don't know how to get beyond being casual lovers. They're like maybe if we give them a push, they'll confess that they're in love!

Like this would be new information to Crowley and Aziraphale...

It went really well. Didn't give Bildad a migraine or anything. 😂

That fond, loving way that Aziraphale looks at Maggie... I mean... she's not just his favorite of the local shopkeepers. That's affection for Maggie in her own right, yes, but it's also such an oh, just look at the lovely person my love and I made look. It's the happiest Aziraphale looks all season.

#good omens #good omens meta #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #ineffable husbands speak #etymology #maggie good omens

70 notes · View notes