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a-twistedheartslonging · 12 days

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Could we please have your headcanons of non-human Ace?? Is he a cuddly fox?? Or a coyote?

I would say a fox would suit him pretty well, cute little troublemaker.

Soft fluffy fur that matches his hair and covers his arms and legs but is black from wrists to hands and ankles to feet. There's fur above where his tail is attached and there's a small patch of white fluff on his chest, and his underarms along with a thin but soft happy trail of white fur starting below his belly button.

His dark claws that are semi-retractable. Sort of human hands, the skin is dark to match the dark fur on top of his hand and the patting on his fingertips along with the pad on his palm also matches the color. The padding is kind of soft. Touches your hands and teases you for them being small and clawless, totally not because he wants to hold them.

Foxes hunt by stalking and pouncing on their prey, regular human Ace already likes startling you, especially with the cute noises you make. It’s gonna be way worse with him being an actual predator made for hunting and sneaking. You will hear nothing before he pounces and man will he laugh once he has you. Said laugh is a bit fox-like but not quite.

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Foxes actually have small spines on their tongues, you discover that when he decides to give your cheek a lick. No, he’s not being affectionate he just knows you humans think that stuff is gross, and he wanted to mess with you…totally the reason.

Even domesticated foxes have a very strong digging instinct, they will absolutely attempt to dig through floors, carpets, and your yard. He mostly grew out of it but you might catch him digging a hole or two in the Heartslabyul garden or even behind Ramshackle. Sometimes for no reason or other times to hide something from Riddle.

He is such a freaking snack thief.

Despite being a canine species, foxes actually resemble cats more than dogs in many ways. Like his animal counterpart, Ace’s pupils are catlike, vertical slits, which gives him excellent night vision. Many foxes are also excellent climbers, routinely scaling trees and roofs to stalk birds and squirrels. So, you might catch him on your roof or hanging out in a tree and he will likely encourage you to join him up there. Oh, the little human has trouble climbing? Well, he…he guesses he could help you if you give him some snacks later- no wait come back! It’s too bad most of the others here are beastmen or else it would be way easier to cheese it after causing trouble.

Foxes are naturally curious animals. As such, they occasionally check out other animals—even the ones that would, in other circumstances, be their bitter enemies—and make friends with them. For instance, dogs (and, to a lesser extent, cats) tend to have an antagonistic relationship with foxes. This does nothing to stop individual foxes from sometimes approaching and playing with both cats, to the point where the fox and the other animal actually befriend each other. Ace is similar in a lot of ways, though unfortunately as we all know, Ace’s version of making friends involves a lot of teasing. He’s lucky humans aren't a bitey bunch and can be easily won over by floof. He knows this is a weakness of yours and uses that to his advantage, acting like he's allowing you to pet him out of the goodness of his heart and not because it feels freaking amazing. Too bad for him Foxes are a vocal bunch, especially when happy and he sucks at hiding the feel-good fox noises when you find a good spot.

Interestingly enough recent research has found that one of the earliest animal species foxes have befriended may actually be . . . us humans. A 16,500-year-old cemetery in northern Jordan was found to contain a grave with the remains of a human male and his companion fox. Seeing as the grave is roughly 4,000 years older than the earliest known human-dog burial, it would appear that foxes were playing around with humans long before we got around to domesticating dogs. So…it was all most meant to be that you guys become friends…and he's obviously your favorite, right?

Be it with family, a friend, or something more foxes can be especially affectionate. Grooming, playing, and cuddling are the big three ways they show it. Though with grooming he often seems to be the one insisting you do it for him, he's pretty proud of his tail and is smug about it with others that you love his so much.

It…nice how you gently hold his hand while filing claws that got a bit too long. He’s ready to fall asleep, half lying on you as you brush out his fur, humming soothingly as you do it. It's in that relaxed half-awake state when he unconsciously tries to groom you back using his tongue. Will deny everything if you bring it up later. However, once you're officially together things change, and you'll end up with a lot more licks and Ace going after your neck and face along with a lot of nibbles.

Oh, the cuddling. Foxes cuddle not only to keep warm but also as a form of security blanket for each other. Their close physical contact provides comfort and reassurance within their social circles. Best believe anytime either of you has some stressful stuff going on a cuddling sesh is going to happen. He doesn’t even need to ask about sharing a bed since it's just normal for you guys now. Will still say he does it for your benefit, but we all know the truth. The nights he spends with you are the ones where he sleeps best, and he’ll get kind of grumpy if you don’t get to do it often. He’s clingy in his sleep and a living heater. Expect to either be used like a personal body pillow or straight up get laid on. Too bad for you if you get too hot or have to pee. The tail always manages to get wrapped around you. A cuddle pile with him, you, and Deuce is not uncommon.

Playing, there are the usual things he does for fun, along with his pranks but…for some reason chasing and catching you seems to be one of his favorites. Will give you a bite once he has you but is surprisingly gentle with it. That fluffy tail will swing around like nuts and the happiest noises make their way out of him as he rolls around on the ground with you in his arms. Tease him about it and he might give you a harder bite.

The others are sure he's making it his life's goal to have you always smell like him. You've lost track of how many times he's tossed a spare shirt or hoodie your way saying something about how a furless weirdo like you needs to stay warm. Arm over your shoulders, head resting on top of yours, if he's not touching you, he's at least sitting close. Gets grumpy if he smells anyone else on you and will straight up say you stink.

As far as courting goes, a lot of the guys assumed he was already doing it with how he already acts with you. Aside from him bringing you more food and getting into more fights it's mostly the same. Male foxes court the vixens and often fight with other males during breeding season. The female chooses which one receives her favors. The males follow the female until she makes her decision. The guys probably thought you were just taking a really long time to make up your mind or felt too guilty to reject him yet.

Fox Breeding and sex are mentioned below. ⬇️

Interestingly enough male foxes only produce sperm during their mating season. With many animals, the male is triggered into season by the female going into heat, but even after researching it for a whole day, I'm not sure if that also applies to foxes since this seems unique to them. What does this mean for Ace? Will he only be in the mood when his season comes around? Will he still be affected by his partner ovulating?

Or is this possibly something that wouldn't necessarily affect his libido but just means he'll be having dry orgasm until he's in season? I mean, the latter means no mess or need for contraceptives so that doesn't sound too bad, especially with giving oral so maybe we will just go with that.

Like a regular fox, he indeed has a knot. For some reason unlike wolves or dogs where it takes around half an hour for them to get unstuck from knotting, foxes stay together longer, typically for an hour but can go for even longer.

Foxes scream when they mate...a lot...and really loud. I'm not saying that he will actually scream but he can get pretty loud with the moans during sex and will make at least some fox noises.

After mating is usually when foxes get to work on their den. Since Ramshackle is away from everyone else he's likely going to consider your room your guy's den. Expect him to leave a lot of his stuff in there and if your bed isn't that big, he is going to make a pillow and blanket nest for you two on the floor, maybe it will even be like a fort. Perfect for cuddling in, mating, and having babies.

Does not actually want kids but that won't keep him from talking about breeding you during the act....now that I think about it, I think a lot of the twst dudes that don't want kids would do the same thing. "No baby, only breed."

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #nonhuman au #suggestive #ask #asks #twst ace #ace trappola/reader #twisted wonderland ace #ace trappola

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forbidden-sunlight · 1 year

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yandere!thor headcanons with fem!kokushibo!reader

warning: spoilers from the anime or manga, obsessive behavior, violence, explicit language, stalking. Please take caution when reading the content.

The intention of this story is for entertainment purposes only, it is not my personal belief(s). The behavior exhibited here is inappropriate and unhealthy, hence it should not be encouraged. There are also triggers, so please take caution. You are responsible for your Internet consumption!

Credit for this piece goes to @recreationalfanfics and their phenomenal works, specifically this one. I’d also like to thank @onecantsimply and @dazailover1900 for helping me proofreading this piece!

Thor is bored. Although he was slightly interested in this Ragnarök, he believed his fight would not even last a minute. A single swing of his Mjölnir is an absolute victory for the gods, and his opponent would be wiped away from the arena in a bloodied sack of crumpled flesh. He was not fazed by the revelation of Heimdall’s announcement that humanity’s representative was a six-eyed demon from the Sengoku era, the former Moon Hashira [First Name] [Last Name], or how the other deities claimed the unfairness of the situation. Despite the outcry, Zeus allowed this fight to be the first official match.

A demon was born from the malice of mankind. It was only fitting that the Thunder Berserker would destroy it. To give an example of the gods superiority over the humans. Heimdall blew his horn, commencing the beginning of Ragnarök. Thor did not think of it as anything special, nor did he care for the demon or that the demon was a woman because it would do nothing to alleviate his boredom.

Oh, but what a fool he had been.

From the moment that his opponent unsheathed her sword and released the first form of her sword technique, everything changed. He used his Mjölnir to block the numerous crescent blades, and the demon used it as an opportunity to get close and strike at him. The blade swung vertically, clanging against the hammer. While Thor remained focused on blocking this attack, the crescent blades changed direction and struck his body.

Once on the right, two on the left, and the last one cleaved through his toga. Yet each blade had penetrated his body, drawing blood from the Valhalla’s Vanguard. Blood from a bored god.

[First Name] blinked. “So…the First Form is enough to cause minimal damage yet your arteries and muscles are still intact. The body of a god is much more durable than I initially thought.” The demon adjusted her stance, twisting clawed hands around the handle of her sword. “Perhaps the Fifth Form would be preferable…then again, Lady Brunhilde would be upset if there is damage to the arena and the crowd.” She murmured. “Oh, well. I will not know until I try.” Six [Eye Color} orbs stared up at him. “Are you ready, Lord Thor?”

The crowd was stunned, as had been Thor…until his shock became excitement. And it only grew with each passing second that his and [First Name]’s weapons, tactics, and agility collided. She was not holding back, and neither would he.

How could he, after he had finally found an equal? The one person who would make his life exciting again? He wanted this fight to continue if it meant he had another moment to clash against his beloved Moon Hashira.

Alas, nothing lasts for eternity.

Their fight ends in a draw, much to everyone’s shock. But Heimdall’s announcement did not deter [First Name] from running towards him with her sword, pushing the last remaining energy into her speed to land one more, just one more strike to give humanity a chance to survive against the gods.

Such a gesture only made Thor’s heart flutter in adoration as he sidestepped the attack, stopping the blade’s trajectory with his bare hand.

[First Name] was about to exhale another breath, to release another form of her beautiful fighting style, when Zeus officially (and reluctantly) declared that the first bout of Ragnarök is a stalemate. The two of them will fight later on as a tie-breaker.

If it had not been for Brunhilde’s interference, [First Name] would have ignored the supreme god in favor of finishing the job. Thor watched the woman reluctantly withdraw herself from him, sheathing her sword and walking back to humanity’s corner with a slight limp in her gait.

The Moon Hashira was covered in sweat, blood, and burn marks from the backlash of Mjölnir’s attacks, yet she held her head high with a composed expression. Yet the Thunder God could sense her anger. She was upset that their fight had come to an end like this. She wanted to keep going until one of them was dead.

Yes…there is no doubt in Thor’s mind no longer. [First Name] [Last Name] is his soulmate. And he will do anything to keep her at his side, even betray his brethren to fight alongside the humans. He wanted her, he needed her to feel alive.

He did not want to be separated from the former Demon Slayer for a single moment. He did not want anyone taking his precious person away from him, be it a god or a champion of humanity.

Once he was healed, Thor would seek out Brunhilde. Knowing cunning and desperate she is to save humanity, it would not be too hard to make a deal with the Valkyrie, wouldn’t it?

Bonus Content:

Following her fight against the Norse Berserker, [First Name] would spend each day training. She had truly believed that her imprisonment in Helheim, battling against other demons in a battlefield made from fire and brimstone before Brunhilde had brought them here to Valhalla, would have made her stronger…yet it still wasn’t enough.

To reach a stalemate between two warriors would be considered dishonorable when she had been a human woman. But it was even worse to turn your back against humanity and become a demon because you feared death so much. That was what she had done.

Now…she had a chance to prove that she is much more than a disappointing sibling who would forever live in the shadow of her prodigal little brother. Lady Brunhilde has been given her this opportunity.

And she will not disappoint her new master…or would it be more appropriate to call the Valkyrie a ‘business partner’? Wasn’t the reason that the first fight between her and Thor had gone swimmingly…is because that the gods remained oblivious to what Brunhilde really had planned for this battle?

After all, they still believed that there is no weapon that can harm a god. To know that their strongest god would be defeated by a demon who wasn’t blessed with a Divine Weapon…wouldn’t it make them feel even more inferior?

Taglist:

@onecantsimply

@rukia-writes

@recreationalfanfics

@radioactivesweet

#snv x reader #snv thor #shuumatsu no valkyrie #thor record of ragnarok #record of ragnarok #ror thor #ror thor x reader #record of ragnarok x reader #femreader #yandere #yandere male #forbidden-sunlight #ns.fw

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abominationimperatrix · 2 years

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A short list of extremely-specific lesser-known mythical monster tropes which I didn’t expect to be super widespread:

1. Ogres which, when slain, spawn huge amounts of mosquitoes out of their bodies.

2. Humanoid horrors that lurk at the tops of cliffs and kick passerbies down off of the ledge so that their mates and/or offspring can kill them.

3. Depraved ex-human cannibals for whom one of their feet has rotten away into a spike of bone which they then stab people with.

4. Creatures which resemble pitiful old men and beg people to carry them but their legs are actually tentacle-like “straps” which they use to kill or enslave their victims.

5. Hairy ogres with axe-heads sticking out of their chests.

6. Grotesque female humanoids with enormous, pendulous breasts, one of which they throw over their shoulder. (That last detail specifically shows up more times than you would think possible.)

7. Flying detachable heads. Organs hanging down frequent but optional.

8. The “animal that cannot lie down,” i.e. a monster without joints in its limbs that, you guessed it, cannot lie down and has to lean on things.

10. So. Many. Backwards. Feet. Usually as a means of making trackers think they went in the opposite direction.

11. Swallowers. I.e., monsters that swallow huge amounts of victims but keep them inside in their stomachs before spitting them out when slain. Most famously present in Sub-Saharan Africa, but basically everywhere.

12. Bisected humanoids. Creatures with only half a physical body, cut vertically.

13. Headless monsters with faces on their chests.

14. Natal revenants. The undead remains of women who die in childbirth, usually as some sort of ghostly Succubus.

15. Female creatures with hollow backs, the main giveaway of their supernatural nature.

16. Living meteor demons that spread disease.

17. Chicken-snake hybrids.

18. Rattite-snake hybrids.

19. Parrot-snake hybrids.

20. Monsters that fly around in the atmosphere, and if you look at them you die. (Related to number 16.)

21. In arid regions, RAINBOW TASTE YOU. (Because it signals the end of much-needed rain and is therefore seen in a negative light and personified as something malicious.

22. Owl demons! Tend to be witchy/hag-like.

23. Succubi whose only giveaway of their monstrousness is a single hooved foot.

24. People cursed into becoming weird donkey-things.

25. River blockers. Monsters who block off water supplies in order to cause droughts, and must be slain for that reason.

26. Monsters who inflict some kind of seemingly unsurvivable body horror on you, before resurrecting you long enough to go home at which point you promptly die for reals this time.

And many, many, more, but I’m tired right now. Might update later.

Update: Wow! I did not expect this blow up, or for this many people to be interested! This was very spur of the moment and off the top of my head, I assumed I would just be infodumping into the void. I’m going to write up examples for all of these, I’m just going to need a little bit of time to get my sources in order to make sure they I don’t misrepresent or misremember anything. How common a lot of these are varies, some tend to be primarily amongst neighboring cultures in specific regions, others tend to be downright global. And some have dozens of instances while others are more like that Doofenshmirtz meme. (I’d only have two nickels but I’m surprised it happened twice).

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matchadobo · 6 months

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KIDD; biker kidd au

summary: fluffy stuff abt this hot headcanon of mine that he'll look so biteable as a biker WHAHDUAHDHS LMAO warning/s: borderline nsfw since some nsfw stuff are mentioned but not there is no occurrence of the actual thing, all fluff!!, super hot kidd ahead nGgghhhhHHh

just imagine, this fucking fridge of a man in a bike with a helmet

you'd always be delighted when he picks you up after work with the bike

he'd look so hot leaning on the bike while waiting for you

you'd have your own helmet and he loves putting it on for you, giving you a kiss before locking the helmet

he'd let you sit behind or in front of him, but he likes it when you're infront. he feels your ass more 😫. pros for behind is that he gets cuddles, would always have a hand on your leg

for the first time when you were shy enough to join him in his bike but is painfully required to hold onto him. you'd insist in holding the other edge of the bike even when he insists on you holding onto him, he'd fucking convince you so much to do so mf engineered for you to be in that position!! so when you would be too shy to comply, he'd start up the engine and move instantaneously a little so you can fucking fall behind him and subconsicously hold onto him. he'd be smirking and tightening your grip saying "hang tight, princess. don't want you falling further than you already have."

the feeling of the breeze on your skin while his arms are caging you and you have the free view of the road

he'd always do the thing where the bike goes vertically (IDK WHAT IT'S CALLED), you'll be scared at first but as he does it more often it's an adrenaline rush for both of you

his favorite position on the bike is when it's parked and you're sitting infront of him and facing him. he'll stare you down, lift your helmet, and give you a kiss that'd last a little too long

he'll love pretend-fucking you in the bike, where whenever it stops he'll just playfully thrust into you with a hand on your hip. always relishes on your flustered reaction, not knowing what to do with yourself. gives you a pat on your helmet after

you'd love to play on his bike, pretend like you'll drive it and leave him. mans will be pouting with that usual scowl

he likes taking you on mountains and parking it there on his previously mentioned favorite position, watching the view or doing something more than kissing 🤪

i just think this fits him so well than having a car, he metal like that

just imagine HIS ARMS while maneuvering that shit 😩

whenever you're in front of him, his titties are such a good cushion on the ride, it's so soft!! even when you're behind, you'll be clutching on them and squeezing

if you're down, he'll teach you how to ride the bike. just expect a very non-patient teacher 😞 so expect to get yelled at (affectionately). he'll even take you out to canvas on finding your own bike, secretly thrilled he'll have you as a biking partner

he loves customizing his bike, he fixes and replaces parts on his own. he'd love saying, "hey baby, look at my new fucking tires.", "look at my cool rims and headlights, love" with a proud, nerdy grin. always cooped up on his garage, tattered with grime and motor oil or some shit, always shirtless in the process. it'd be a hot spectacle tbfh!! you'd have to physically drag him out and ask him to take a bath.

he'd participate in races from time to time, bringing you as his little cheerleader. would use the cash prices for dates afterwards and use the remaining for bike work

would get your name somewhere in the design of his bike

during long trips, whenever there's a chance to stop due to traffic or stop lights, he'd let out a heavy breath and remove his hands from the clutches, you'd massage his shoulders and arms. he'd moan silently ij reliefwhile rubbing your thighs as a thank you, leaning his head down a bit on yours

he also loves (begrudgingly) when you ask him to bring you to places you need to go to. especially when you go out to your friends, he loves to show your friends that you bagged a fucking stud like him but more so show off his bike

omg i have been so absent AKASJDHAHD there was just a lot happening with my life plus this was the only hc i can properly execute, i don't want to post anything half-baked!! i hope this one somehow makes up for my absence ><

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cambion-companion · 2 years

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Hiii can I request Aemond telling his betrothed that he loves her for the first time?

Yes! All the fluff, all the love for this Good BoyTM. You cannot convince me he doesn't have a soft heart under all that trauma and bitterness. God he's gorgeous. ANYWAY enjoy!

Aemond x reader | No content warnings | FLUFF

Rain pattered with a gentle rhythm on the roof of the Red Keep, intermixed with the crackling fireplace before you. You sat on a comfortable sofa, in a secluded corner of the spacious library, your favorite haunt. At this time of night, you were the only soul there gaining you a precious moment of seclusion and peace from all the noises of court.

You did not hail from King’s Landing and found it to be quite oppressive at times, yearning for home became an unfortunately common pastime of yours when your mind was not taken to faraway lands by the many books you’d read in the thick atmosphere of the library. You had been sent to the Red Keep over a year ago, just another girl betrothed to a prince of a noble house. The Targaryen house, to be precise, and soon to be wed to Aemond One Eye, second-born son of King Viserys Targaryen.

You had become close friends with his sister, Helaena, right away after arriving at your new home. She was a delightful girl and had no vice in her heart, much unlike her brother and husband Aegon. You still couldn’t quite figure Aemond out, however. He was obviously more pragmatic than his elder brother, and much more cunning than anyone you had met. The raw intelligence that sparkled behind his one violet eye had drawn you to him as a moth to a flame. You would find yourself, usually an introverted and quiet person, talking quite animatedly with him. Conversation flowed easily between you two, and soon enough you developed no small amount of affection for your betrothed. Thanking the gods silently it was Aemond, and not Aegon, with whom you were to be married.

He knew you better than you perceived and watched you intently when you were unaware, feigning disinterest whenever you looked at him. In your turn, you watched him with equal interest, especially when he trained with Sir Criston Cole in the courtyard. Aemond was tall and lithe, as one of the mountain cats from your home, dodging each attack with fluid movements. He wore a leather eyepatch over where his left eye once had been, a vertical scar running down his face. His hair was long and straight, of typical Targaryen silver, and the way it moved around his shoulders and back often hypnotized you.

You had once asked him what the secret to such beautiful hair was and he had laughed, a lovely sound you thought.

“I have no secret care routine, if that’s what you’re asking me Y/N.” Aemond had looked at you fondly. “I will count on you to help me keep it, what was it you said, ‘shining and lustrous’?”

Your eyes glazed as you got lost in giddy memories of him. For all the talk at court, you could not imagine Aemond as being indifferent or cruel. He was arrogant at times, certainly, and could be cool in demeanor if a mood hit him but with you…he was softer.

Gods be good…you thought to yourself, I love him.

You heaved a shaky sigh and with a snap closed the book that had been sitting uselessly on your legs.

“Must be a dull story to garner such distain.”

You stifled a small shriek, whipping your head towards the intruder. “Aemond! You nearly scared the life out of me, what are you doing here?”

“It’s a library, is it not?” Aemond approached you and sat, holding his own dusty volume. “I couldn’t sleep so I came here to read, much like you I’m assuming.”

You nodded, rubbing your tired eyes with a hand. “I’ve had too much to think about, sleep is rather evasive these days.”

Aemond studied your face intently, the book he had brought remained unopened next to him. “What is it that is vexing my lady so?”

Your hands fell to your skirts, twisting the fabric as you looked back at him. “I think you know, Aemond.”

“Ah. So, it’s about our soon-to-be union.”

“To be blunt, yes.”

“You do not wish for it.”

You blinked, taken aback. “I…what?”

“You do not wish to be married to me.” Aemond’s voice was matter of fact, like this was something he had already accepted. “I will not say I’m surprised. No lady looks upon this face and thinks ‘oh yes, the man without an eye. I wish him to be my lord husband’.”

You stared at him, your mouth slightly open. Aemond seemed to register your confusion because he stopped talking abruptly, his angular face tilting slightly.

“You seem to know my thoughts better than I do, my prince.” You replied coolly, emphasizing the title he had asked you not to use in place of his name.

“I apologize if I have given offense, Y/N.” Aemond seemed genuinely taken aback. “You have been distant of late, and I am overused to being looked upon with either pity or disgust.”

“I don’t look upon you with either.” You touched Aemond’s hand lightly with your own, his eye dropped to appraise it, before interlocking his long fingers with yours.

“You…mean a great deal to me, Y/N. I have grown to treasure the moments we have together.” His words trailed off as if he meant to say more but couldn’t bring himself to.

“You can tell me anything, you know.” You encouraged him, a smile in your voice.

Aemond’s eye snapped up to your face, drinking in your features with a tenderness you had not seen before. “When I claimed Vhagar, I thought I had gained everything I wanted. Everything I’d ever want.” His fingers tightened around yours briefly. “Then I met you and I found myself…wanting.” Aemond reached forward with his other hand and caressed your face, tracing your jaw and making you shiver. “I want you, Y/N.”

“I am not a dragon to be claimed, Aemond.” You said softly.

His curved mouth twitched upwards at your words, “Indeed you are not. Though at times when you are angry, I wonder if you could breathe fire.” His thumb moved to press lightly against your bottom lip. “I love…I love you.” The confession seemed to cost Aemond a great deal of effort and you could hear his breath quicken.

You inhaled sharply, letting his words linger in the air between you two. Your heart beat an erratic rhythm against your chest, surely he could hear it.

Aemond stirred with impatience, his grip on your chin tightened. “Do not leave me sitting here in agony, Y/N. Tell me what that beautiful mind of yours is thinking right now.”

You smiled then, soft and bright, emotion welling behind your eyes. You raised a hand to grasp him gently around his wrist. “I love you too, Aemond. I want you to be mine, to become yours. I want to have a life with you, a family, a home.”

Aemond wrapped his arms about you, pulling you into him and placing a warm kiss to your forehead. “You shall have all that and more, my heart. With me, you will want for nothing.”

#aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond fic #aemond targaryen #aemond stannies #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen fic #house of the dragon fic #prince aemond #aemond x oc

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emeritusemeritus · 2 months

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hey! I love your work, you're incredibly talented ❤️ I was thinking, could you write something about y/n and george weasley going to hogwarts together (not best friends but not strangers either) but losing connection after the war and reuniting when she opens a cafe in diagon alley, so they start to see each other more often and hang out, and one day they confess that they used to have a crush on each other? very fluffy🥰

sorry if this is badly worded haha, english is not my first language

don't feel obligated to do it if you don't want to, no worries!

Hey Anon! Thank you so much, that’s so sweet of you! My love it would be a pleasure 🖤

Warnings: brief mentions of the war, George losing his ear, tooth rotting fluff. Fred’s only mentioned once, ambiguous if he’s alive or not. George calls us sweetness.

Word count: 2.2k

It had to be him, you were almost certain of it.

The familiar shade of red hair exactly as you remembered, the towering height and the mischievous smile that seemed to light up a room. It was almost certainly George Weasley that you were looking at.

He was stood further down the line, his face partially blocked by the coffee machine as you prepared orders for your customers. Never once had you anticipated the butterflies that would appear at the very sight of George Weasley again when you opened your cafe in Diagon Alley, but here you were, plating up the homemade cakes with a smile, nerves building as he neared the counter.

"George?" You asked, drawing his attention away from the display of cakes and pastries in front of you as his eyes flicked up to your face. He remained expressionless for a few seconds, almost frozen as he looked at you and you could almost feel the sense of dread and embarrassment sinking in. Either it was George and he didn't recognise you or it was definitely not George and you'd made a huge fool of yourself.

"Y/n?" He says with a wide smile, suddenly slipping out of his little daydream, "what are you doing here? I haven't seen you in years!"

You smile and blush under his gaze, hardly believing that this was really happening.

"I came back about six months ago, I went to Paris to study. Decided it wasn't for me and I opened up this little place," you explained, hardly able to get your words out you were grinning so hard.

You and George were friends once upon a time, not overly close but friendly, friends of friends and definitely the person you'd wished you spent more time with at Hogwarts. He made you laugh, he was kind, polite, a great Quidditch player and more than anything he was absolutely gorgeous. He'd been the object of your desire since near enough your third year, with your school girl crush holding out until you eventually lost contact after the war. It seemed silly really but as you stood there in front of him, it was like that teenage crush was still having an affect on you, hear racing, cheeks flushed and butterflies fluttering in your belly.

Marcia, one of your employees kindly took over taking everyone's order as you and George stood for a while chatting like old friends by the side of the till. The years had been good to him, he looked so handsome in his three piece suit with vertical stripes, the colours complimenting him very well. You cursed yourself for not putting more effort into your appearance that morning, unaware that the boy you'd had a crush on for at least four of your seven school years would be standing right there. His laugh was like music, flowing out of him so effortlessly, the sound transporting you back to the time you'd longed to hear him laugh like that for you, the sound always capturing your attention wherever you were in the castle.

"I'm sorry I have to go and open the store," he says after a while, a guilty look on his face as he runs the back of his neck. "How much do I owe you?" He gestures towards the takeaway tea in his hand that Marcia had brought over for him and you frown at his ridiculous question.

"It's on the house," you say casually, as if it were obvious. "Wait one second."

You step over to the display cabinet and pull out one of the pastries you'd baked that morning, a lemon curd turnover that you favoured amongst all the other treats, quickly bagging it up and taking it over to George, holding it out for him to take.

"A deal," you explain as he takes the bag from you with a thankful smile, "free tea if you try this, come back and tell me what you think."

He beams, looking between you and the bagged up naked good in his hand whilst nodding.

"Deal," he smiles, a little moment shared between you.

It had been two weeks since George had stepped into your little cafe and truthfully you'd not stopped thinking about him since. It was like the past few years hadn't happened at all, like no time had gone by, the second he crossed your mind you were rendered useless, unable to concentrate on anything except him. It was ridiculous, you didn't know if he was single, married whatever, but each and every time he stepped through the door, you melted.

He'd been back nearly everyday since, always leaving with a different baked good and a steaming hot cup of tea ready to start the day. You'd started trying to guess his favourite, to find the thing he liked the most in all of the shop. It had become a game between you, he'd try something new and tell you the day after how it compared whilst you tried to guess what his favourite was but he was aloof and secretive, making you work for it.

Each time he'd been back, the lingering at the end had gotten worse, to the point it was dragged out significantly as you both giggled and fought to prolong the inevitable separation. You'd found out in passing, a stroke of luck, that he was single. He said that he hadn't dated much since the war, too focused on the shop, which had admittedly eased your guilt a little, knowing that you weren't flirting with a married man. You were almost certain that George was flirting back with you, the devilish twinkle in his eye always present.

"What did you think?" You ask as George walks through the door Friday morning before the shop opens, the usual routine you'd built.

"It's was unbelievable," he says with a smile, walking towards you at the counter. "Crispy all over, not even a little bit soggy and the filling was perfect; not too sweet."

"So..."

"Still not my favourite."

"Fuck sake George!" You laugh, encouraging him to laugh along with you, "I'm nearly out of recipes!"

"Then you'll just have to try harder, won't you sweetness."

There it was, the nickname he'd given you that was randomly dropped into conversation over a week ago and had been used everyday since. It made your cheeks heat up and your head spin every time, though you tried to hide it behind your fallen strands of hair. Talking to George was so easy, the conversation flowed so effortlessly that you lost track of time frequently, the two of you so caught up that you only realised the time when the timer went off on one of the ovens, signalling that the bread rolls were ready- and that it was 9am.

"What are you doing tonight?" He asks, grabbing his tea and bag of goodies to try.

"It's bread day, have to make the loaves ready for the weekend, why?" You asked, filling up the coffee beans as you prepared for the impending morning rush, finally springing back to work as you realised that you had barely even made a dent in the jobs you had planned to do.

"Oh, no reason," he says, "hope you have a good day sweetness."

He'd barely walked through the door when Marcia appears by your side, nudging you in the side.

"I thought you liked him?"

"What?" You ask, confused at her words.

"You light up like a Christmas tree whenever he's around, you giggle and I've seen raspberry tarts let pink than your cheeks when he calls you sweetness," she says with a knowing smile. "Poor bloke finally gets up the courage to ask you out and you turn him down."

"What? That wasn't him asking me out! He just wanted to... oh."

Any colour that had been in your face drained almost immediately as you realised your mistake. George had tried to ask you out and you'd waffled on about bloody bread loaves. The over-door bell chimed, signalling the influx of customers and you panicked, needing to stay and serve the line of customers piling on but also wanting to straighten things out with George. You were torn, stressed out by the obvious decision you had to make.

"Go, I've got it," she says, nudging you out the way with her hip. You blurt out a thank you and run out from around the corner, through the door and down the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley until you neared the huge orange building right at the top.

You pulled open the door and immediately tried to seek out George, trying to find his red hair in a sea of people. You spotted Ron on the stairs, finding his red hair first before trying again, sighing heavily feeling deflated after a minute or so of looking when you couldn't see George anywhere.

"Care to try our love potions miss? They really do work," you heard from behind you, the voice sending a shiver up your spine.

"Don't need it," you replied, turning and smiling when you saw George grinning down at you. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise," you paused, feeling like an idiot all of a sudden. What if he hadn't been asking you out? As you glanced up at him, feeling his gaze on you, you lost your nerve slightly.

"If I read this wrong I'm sorry, for you I'm free as a bird tonight," you say, adding. "But if you're not asking like that, then I'm baking bread and we never talk about this again."

You watch as his eyebrows raise slightly before a big smile stretches slowly across his face, eyes lighting up at your words.

“Pick you up at 7?” He asks rather quickly, sparing you from any embarrassment of the moment lingering on. You beam up at him with a nod of your head, reaching up to give him a kiss on the cheek before leaving, casting one last glance back to see George watching you walk away with a smirk.

7pm finally comes around and you’re a bundle of nervous energy, fingers twitching as you adjust your dress for the fifth time in two minutes.

“Relax,” Marcia says from behind you, grabbing her bag and coat ready to leave for the day. “You look incredible and if he doesn’t agree then I’d say he lost his eyes as well as his ear in the war.”

“Marcia!” You say but she simply laughs, waving you goodbye as she steps out of the door leaving you alone.

“You look incredible,” you hear George say and your eyes shoot up to see him looking so handsome, holding a small bouquet of flowers with a gorgeous smile on his face.

“So do you Mr Weasley,” you say, biting your lip slightly at the sight before you and then grinning once he hands you the flowers.

“Okay I have a bit of a confession,” he says as you sit at the intimate little table at the Cauldron, one of the nicest and newest restaurants in Diagon Alley. You look at him with a slight frown of concern, stomach twisting a little as you pray it’s not bad news. He smiles gently at you and you can almost see the hint of a blush upon his cheeks.

“I feel like I need to keep pinching myself, being here with you now, I had the biggest crush on you at school.”

George laughs when your mouth falls open, almost comically so as his words sink in.

“You’re kidding!” You sat, eyed glistening as you look across at him in disbelief.

“I’m completely serious,” he chuckles, “I wasn’t very good at showing it back then, never dreamt of actually being able to tell you. Fred used to tease me about it all the time. But then when I saw you again, I couldn’t let you slip away again without knowing.”

“That would have been very useful to know back then,” you say with a smile, taking a sip of your wine. “I also had a massive crush on you.”

“No way,” he says with a dismissive chuckle.

“Way,” you counter argue with a smirk, “started around third year, by fourth year it was already too late for me.” You laugh, as does George.

“I swear when you hit that rogue bludger away from Harry during the first match against Slytherin, you were right in front of me in the stand, thought I was gonna fall onto the pitch I was so attracted to you.”

“Was?” He says with a smirk, using your use of past tense against you.

“Am,” you corrected, taking another sip of wine and smiling behind the glass. There’s a moment where neither of you say anything, simply looking at each other with dangerously attracted eyes and smiles.

“Would you like to order dessert?” The waiter suddenly appears by your side, gesturing towards the dessert menus in front of you.

“I’ll have the cinnamon apple cake,” George says with a nod and you order your own, offering a thank you to the waiter.

“That your favourite?” You ask teasingly, calling back to the game of guessing his favourite sweet treats.

“‘Fraid not sweetness,” he says with a smirk and a little wink.

“I’m never going to guess am I?”

“Ask me again in 20 years, we’ve got plenty of time to find out.”

#emeritusemeritus #emeritusemerituswrites #harry potter #George weasley #george weasley masterlist #george weasley fluff #requests #George weasley x reader #George weasley x You

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oftidheard · 4 months

Note

hi! i saw you wanted holiday themed requests so i was wondering if you could write something fluffy about either sejanus or treech where their gf is feeling kind of insecure bc she thinks she doesn't deserve christmas gifts (maybe because she was a victor and she thinks shes a bad person bc she had to kill people in the games) and they reassure her? <3 i love ur writing btw!

thank you!!! ♡♡ i went with treech because about half of my other seasonal requests are for sejanus + this is my first time writing for treech and i'm very excited! warnings: a few mentions of vomit, descriptions of reader's ptsd from the games (dead bodies, murder, gore) this has a bit of a heavy moment, but i promise it's a very happy ending

"just look up, please." treech x reader ↳ 2.7k ↳ angst to fluff ↳ gender neutral

treech's grip on your hand is horribly unwavering as he guides the two of you up the — what would normally be perfectly easy for you to traverse, but in your overtiredness the steepness might as well be perfectly vertical — hill. you aren't exactly playing this game of tug-of-war fairly, with the way you're all but dropping to the ground as dead weight that you hope your boyfriend will finally stop trying to drag along; but in your defence, you don't think it was very fair of him to drag you out of bed on christmas eve the moment the clock struck over to christmas day with no explanation.

he's lucky you feel this innate safeness around him, because if it had been anyone but treech shaking — albeit very gently, he's not entirely horrible — you awake in the assumed safety of your house, in the middle of the night, you would have erupted into screams and stabbed him with the nearest sharp object you could get your hands on.

instead, you'd just stirred and groaned when your eyes had fluttered open to the face of your grinning boyfriend looming over you, and not even had the energy to protest his undisclosed plan.

by the time you'd gained your footing — metaphorically, mentally, absolutely not physically, if your sleepy stumbling is anything to go by — you'd already made footfall on the base of the hill he's leading you up, and he's grown too determined to let you roll down miserably by now.

you've had a pit making home in your stomach since the beginning of december, and though you'd be fooling yourself to think you'd been perfectly alright before then, treech unsubtly trying to find out what gift you might want for the holidays has been the sickening reminder of the month approaching — the one which brings happiness you simply don't deserve.

you'd told him you want nothing, which he'd thought was some sort of joke the first time, and then he had only grown concerned when it remained your answer.

you know you don't deserve something like a christmas present; it's as simple as that. someone like you — a monster, a killer, a murderer, a victor — doesn't deserve neatly wrapped boxes under trees and heartwarming traditions. you deserve to rot in your bed long enough that your persistent boyfriend finally gets the message that you can't be 'saved'.

you fight against whatever treech's plan is — because deep down, you know it's going to be a gift, you don't know how yet, you don't know why he's leading you up a hill you didn't even know existed — but you know at the end of it there'll be something wrapped with a shining bow so pure you can already feel the vomit rising in your throat.

so just like you'd rejected well-wishes and invites to festive events all month, you fight.

you slow your steps and imagine your shoes are coated in heavy mud, weighing you down so deep that the earth opens up to swallow you — which, with how tired you are, the feeling isn't too hard to imagine.

you slump and let your eyes close absently, your tactic really just consisting of forcing treech to try to carry you up the hill on his own — and getting to go back home when he inevitably gives up.

but still, you feel his hand tugging on yours, and a, "come on!" that is way too enthusiastic for someone who woke up in the middle of your night and decided to make it your problem.

you groan when he somehow keeps making — albeit much slower, but still noticeable — progress in dragging you up the hill. the tired ache running through every one of your bones cries out for your warm bed, and you almost audibly tell your sore body to shut up!, because surely your body of all things trudging up this stupid hill, should be well aware that you are also begging to just collapse.

it occurs to you, just as the thought pops into your mind, that it might not be such a bad idea — so, naturally, you don't hesitate to entirely relax your muscles, and relish in the silence of no longer hearing the complaints of your body as you fully flop to the ground.

the sound of a surprised "woah" is just about as important to you as the feeling of your knees impacting with the dirt beneath you; which is to say, almost not at all — as long as the dirt plans to cooperate with you and provide a comfortable bed — until you realise treech had been so clung onto you that when you fell he fell too.

he loses his footing swiftly following you, and tumbles down on top of you with a thud paired with your low whining.

his chest sandwiches you to the ground, and even though the weight of your boyfriend awkwardly on top of you feels like a pretty sure sign that there won't be any more progress on making it up this hill, you're hesitant to just about declare this a win.

you wriggle your hands up to cushion your face against the sparse grass and whatever else you can't see in this light, and mumble a, "goodnight," after a moment of waiting that tells you treech has given up on regaining his footing.

or so you thought.

it's probably your fault, your small victorious declaration is probably what spurred him on to push off of you and dig his shoes back into the hill — and you cry out when he pulls your hands from under your face, and your cheek falls to the dirt.

you're not even sure what you're muttering as he lifts you up with an admirable strength — that which's persistence you'd probably appreciate, as you do most things about your boyfriend, if he weren't currently using it against you. but even once he's picked you up off the ground and beginning to move upwards again, you keep gloomily complaining under your breath.

treech's hand's grip on your own tightens, and the sickness in your stomach coils.

you wish you had the energy to do anything but make a fool of yourself like a toddler who didn't get their way. you wish you could make him understand that this is far more than grumpiness from some sort of lack of beauty sleep, and that the overwhelmingly dark cloud that looms over you is more than just trivial grouchiness.

maybe the worst part is that in some corner of your mind, you know he knows this; you know he even tries to understand how you feel.

and now, he's failing that endeavour, all to push you past your limit for something you could never want — not anymore.

he looks over his shoulder at you, and you can tell he's trying to withhold a smile. whether this is for your sake or because he thinks he's kept his plan a secret and doesn't want to spoil it is anyone's guess — but you're just about ready to tell him to just smile.

he should be happy right now, he should grin and laugh and find joy in holding your hand — because when you reach wherever he's taking you, you'll either blow up in his face, or deflate and suck all the air out of the world. either way, you'll ruin the mood, and he'll realise whatever his hard work led to was for nothing when you shove the gift in his chest and fail to withhold the vomit growing inside you.

"c'mon!" he encourages you, with a softer voice than you'd have expected. helplessly — and ever so weakly — you find yourself pliable to his request, and attempt to catch up to him before you even realise what you're doing.

he's quick to tuck you into his side, his arm finding a secure hold around your shoulder, and letting you drop your head to rest on his own.

you accept the embrace quietly, folding against him with all your weight now his to hold upright, in a silent admission that now that you are so far from home, you'd much rather be as close to him as possible than out in the dark — scared, alone, mind suddenly stuck back in the arena.

you resign yourself to the light-headedness of dissociating from any risk of even a single thought, and letting your muscle memory take the wheel; ghosting up the hill with dreary eyes and yawns gone unheard to your ears so deeply submerged in the miserable inky water you drown in.

after your aching legs get into the rhythm of matching treech's footsteps, you have no idea how long it takes for him to finally stop the both of you.

though your hear the occasional "almost there" echoing through the caverns of your mind, and barely register the feeling of the wind growing colder against your skin not long after, you let yourself slowly fall into the dark pit that awaits your just before you fall asleep every night.

your muscles grow heavy and footsteps fumbled just as the two of you finally still, and lower to sit on something rough and uncomfortable.

you think you might hear treech whispering to you, trying to get your attention, but you refuse to delve out of the darkness to even try to catch his words.

even as he pulls your side flush against his and his arm drifts down to wrap warmly around your waist — you will your eyes to remain screwed shut.

you remind yourself; sleep grants you peace, dreamless nights grant you the warm hug of nothingness that has become a welcome friend after nightmares of corpses and waking days riddled with reminders of the blood on your hands. sleep keeps the sinking feeling at bay, sleep drifts you so far out into the empty void that you can forget, even when you don't deserve to.

treech's body, adorned in a fluffy sweater and wrapped around yours, would be a welcome feeling if it didn't remind you of the hearts that no longer beat on the arena floor, of the bodies no longer warm by your hand.

sleep doesn't make you throw up your blood and guts and very soul until you have paid enough of your organs to all the throats you slit and all those lives lost to deserve forgiveness.

his head gently pushes against yours in an attempt to draw you out. his breath unknowingly brushes against your pulse point.

you think of the scrawny body facedown on the ground and your desperate scramble to check their pulse. you couldn't bring your shaky hands to flip them over, and from the clothes alone you had no chance at figuring out which of your fellow tributes was gone.

in your dreams, it's a different person every time. sometimes it's the district two girl who almost cracked your skull open, sometimes it's the two siblings from six laid side by side. sometimes it's one of the peacekeepers using their last breath to take your own. sometimes it's treech.

and sometimes it's you, your own lifeless eyes inhabiting a cold, dead body.

the tickle of a soft sensation on your face suddenly draws you out, and your eyes involuntarily flutter open to find your boyfriend's face so close to yours that the tips of his curls brush against your skin.

you want to close your eyes again and pretend his efforts hadn't been successful, but his breath along with the strong wind fans across your eyelids just uncomfortably enough that you have to readjust your position and begrudgingly open them.

you shuffle further into treech's hold, and try hide your face in the crook of his neck, but get disrupted by his contrary movements, forcing you to stop hiding.

he whispers your name, and repeats what you realise he's been saying this whole time, "just look up, please."

this makes you frown, and the only thing that gives you enough motivation to finally give into his pleading, is the fact that there's still no wrapped present in your hands — a sign, you desperately hope, that he heeded your wishes — and it makes you more amiable.

you finally lift your head, and meet his gaze, still with questioning downturned brows — but his eyes light up as if you're looking at him with the brightest smile he's ever seen, and he nods his head ahead of the two of you.

you reluctantly follow his gaze towards the night sky, blinking away the blurriness and adjusting to the darkness.

then, as you face more light than you'd expected, your breath hitches.

above you, like a piece of art that any canvas painting hung in the capitol could never even dream to compare to, there dances strokes of greens and pinks lighting up the night sky.

your eyes widen, begging to see the entirety of the sight and wishing to never forget it, even the sudden cold wind blowing through your slack jaw is a distant concern in the face of this.

the bright greens swirl through the deep blue of the sky, trailing from behind distant mountains until it drifts above you, and you feel the urge to jump from your seat and run your fingers through the tendrils.

as your eyes notice the dusts of pink shadowing the strong greens, you realise — further inside your chest — there is a calmness that has overcome you, a deep tranquillity that has slowed down your heartbeat and run something lighter than blood through your veins. if treech weren't holding you down, you're certain you'd float away until you joined the clouds above — and you'd let it happen.

minutes pass as the lights swallow you whole, eyes reflecting the colours and a sparkling joy you haven't felt since long before your life was ruined.

even as centuries pass in silence, the lights continue to dance for you, and you don't even realise you're grinning widely until you turn to your boyfriend, and his own smile only grows stronger at the sight of yours.

you can barely force your question out through inaudible wonder, as you simply ask, "how?"

you recognise the twinkle in his eyes as the same sensation fluttering through your chest and pumping your heart.

"it happens every year," he explains, your gaze back on the sky, but a warmth peering into the side of your face hinting that his eyes may be fixated on something else.

"always past the curfew, so no one's really dumb enough to sneak out to see it."

you're not sure if it's from the slight humour in his comment, or the euphoric feeling that's overcome your entire being, but you find yourself throwing your head back and laughing — something you might as well have forgotten how to do after so long. and it might have even hurt your throat after months of being out of practice, but you don't notice — nor do you very much care.

"but we are?" you joke, and feel your heart swell when his laugh joins yours with an amused nod.

minutes pass again, and still the colours don't fade. you wonder if you've somehow found yourselves trapped in a time capsule where you can never leave this moment — you find yourself hoping so.

you follow a tendril of pink and the softest purple on the outskirts of the lights, and smile when treech's hand finds yours to lead you both closer to the edge of the hill, where you feel even closer to the view.

"do you like it?" he whispers, and you let out a breathy laugh before you can even overthink your every reaction like you've taught yourself to. you don't even have to remind yourself that you're safe here, that while enveloped by love and the same magic that caresses the leaves of trees that reach the clouds, you're free — because you feel it, in every breath and every nerve-ending that comes alive when your boyfriend's face snuggles against the side of yours.

you nod.

you wobble on your feet as you simultaneously try to embrace treech and try to keep your eyes on the sky, and through giddy giggles, you whisper, "merry christmas," and you mean it.

a/n: the lights are specifically aurora borealis/the northern lights! incase anyone might not be familiar with them ♡♡

this also happens much more frequently than once a year in real life, but i imagined either treech simply doesn't really know that, or due to some sort of crisis that happened that might have led to the hunger games universe as we know it, the earth's atmosphere might has been affected, thus maybe making the occurrence a bit different/not as common ♡

#treech x reader #treech tbosas x reader #tbosas treech x reader #treech thg x reader #tbosas x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes x reader #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games x you #the hunger games x y/n #thg x reader #tbosbas x reader #❤︎ — the mockingjay sings

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limarieb · 6 months

Text

(shades of) maroon

Pairing(s): Wanda Maximoff x (implied) fem!reader

Summary: The development of your relationship with Wanda from its glorious beginning to its bitter end. (Inspired by 'Maroon' by Taylor Swift.)

Warnings: strangers to friends to lovers, fluff... to angst, no happy ending (this is my weak attempt at writing angst), character death

Word Count: 6.2k

Author's Note: im still in the process of writing new stuff, so i hope you can enjoy some old writing from my ao3 in the meantime... also, requests are still open!

Main Masterlist | ao3 | Wattpad

...

When the morning came we, Were cleaning incense off your vinyl shelf, 'Cause we lost track of time again, Laughing with my feet in your lap, Like you were my closest friend...

The stench of alcohol plagued the air surrounding you. You were not one to drink much, but Tony insisted on organizing another party — what was to be celebrated, you never really figured out. As the moment thirty minutes had passed since your arrival, the several shots you had done with Natasha were beginning to take effect. You were not drunk yet, but the shots definitely acted as a stepping stone. Beneath your skin, an underlying buzz was being contained.

You were talking to Natasha about the latest news in your life, considering the two of you do not always get to talk as much as you do since she is constantly on missions across the globe. As you raised your cup to your lips, you realized it was too effortless to lift. You excused yourself, making your way through the various attendees to get to the bar for a refill.

When the bartender asked you what you wished to order, you requested your usual: "Vodka Coke, please."

You remained where you were, but you elevated your left arm vertically enough to be placed on the counter. Slightly leaning, you use the angle to reach with your right hand into your pocket to retrieve the phone being stored there. Before you could, however, an unknown voice seemed to acknowledge you, "Interesting drink-of-choice... most go for a Rum and Coke."

You turned around, expecting to find out who this opinionated person is. What you did not expect, though, is said person being a beautiful brunette. Her eyes were one of the brightest shades of green, but they were dulled by the dark eyeliner outlining her eyes. The lengthy, brown hair cascaded down her back and shoulders. You even admired her sense of style; it was edgy — to say the least — but still very fashionable in your opinion. "I like to think I'm interesting," you began. "Otherwise, I'd be boring, and that's no fun. Even so, I refuse to accept that vodka is not the better one, especially compared to rum."

She let out a small laugh when you added a theatric gag at the end, showing your distaste for the latter drink. It was a bit dramatic, but you would do it again just to hear that laugh once more. With a slight smirk forming, she returned: "Coming from a place of people who praised that drink on their hands and knees, I am sure that I'm obligated to agree."

It was your turn to provide a chuckle at her joke, "Russia?"

"Close," she replied, tilting her head from left to right. "Sokovia."

Within seconds, the mood dampened a bit. You saw the numerous news reports of what had happened to the small country: ultimate destruction. There was a sharp intake of your breath, confused about how to properly respond in this situation (especially when you are intoxicated). The girl began chewing on her lip, which you assumed to be a nervous habit due to your lack of an immediate reply.

Once you finally opened your mouth, the bartender returned with your glass. You wrapped your hand around the glass, lifting it to take a sip. It was relatively sweet, yet it still contributed to the increasing levels of liquid courage.

The awkward tension was still present between you two. You could have simply left and returned to Natasha; instead, you opted to ignore it before she had the chance to leave you at the bar. "So," the word started to become drawn out. "Wanna get out of here?"

Her eyes widened, evidently thinking something entirely different than what you were expecting. "Not like that! I just mean, do you want to hang out at my apartment or something, instead of here? It's quite loud, and parties aren't really my thing, anyway. I just come because the alcohol is free. You don't have to, of course, but..."

The anxiety was starting to overpower the liquid courage, causing you to trail off as you finished your question; you left the hope that she accepts your offer to come with you unspoken. Finally, you could see the smile return to her face, removing most of the nervousness from your body. It was small but there nonetheless. "Ok," she agreed. "Under one condition, though. I want to know your name."

"Y/N. But, I'll also need to know yours."

"Wanda. Wanda Maximoff."

"Well, Wanda," you placed your now empty glass back on the counter. "We better get going."

Nothing necessarily happened that night. It was purely innocuous fun away from the overwhelming crowd at the party. Nonetheless, it was still one of the best nights of your life. You put some records on the turntable that sat on your bookshelf, allowing your favorite songs and scents of incense to fill the room. Wanda sat at the top of your bed with her back up against the wall. She was busy observing the decorations in your room, inferring the various quirks you possessed.

The two of you talked about many things that night. In the days after, you preferred to blame the openness on the alcohol; however, you knew it was because of her. It was simply easy to talk about anything and everything with Wanda. The Sokovian even shared some of her own stories, albeit with some difficulties. You ensured her it was alright if she didn't want to share, and she admired the respect you gave.

That is not to say it was all sad, traumatic memories being shared. You found out a few things about Wanda when she is tipsy and tired: she can be quite the comedian; she likes physical touch if she is comfortable with the person, resulting in the legs that were laying on your own; and her accent — which is incredibly enticing, you might add — becomes more prominent.

It was like you two had known each other since childhood; if another person had been present, they would assume you were best friends. And, honestly, you wouldn't disagree.

That was the night Wanda had both entered your life for the first time and risen the ranks to "best friend" status.

How'd we end up on the floor anyway? You say, "Your roommate's cheap-ass screw top Rosé", that's how, I see you everyday now...

A month had passed since the night of Tony's party, otherwise known as the night you befriended Wanda. You had seen each other practically every day since then, specifically in the evenings when you do not usually work. A few significant developments had taken place since then, including — but not limited to — the Sokovian becoming an Avenger. You could tell she was apprehensive about it all, concerning the relatively unstable powers she holds; thus, you tried to reassure her whenever you could in moments when her anxieties became overwhelming.

You texted her, letting her know that you were coming over to make her dinner that night. Thankfully, she had training, so the surprise you had planned wouldn't be ruined. A couple of days prior, you researched different Sokovian recipes. You vaguely recalled something she said about her favorite food being from home, but you couldn't exactly recall the name of the dish. After a few minutes, you finally found it: Chicken Paprikash.

As the cooking was coming to an end, you heard your phone ding from the counter, indicating that you had received a text message. Quickly, you wiped your hands of the food remnants on the towel that was closest to you. When the screen lit up, you noticed the message was from Wanda, saying she would be down in a few minutes. Panic began to bubble within you, as the food wasn't done yet and you haven't even gotten the drinks poured. Surely, it is not actually the time you planned to meet—

6:00 PM. That was the time staring back at you on the kitchen clock. Although, you did not have the time to think about how to rectify the problem. Footsteps were heard behind you, and you heard the mystery person inhale deeply through the nose. "Wow," they exclaimed. You knew that accented voice from anywhere: Wanda.

Slowly, you turned on your heels. "Hey, Wanda," you replied, unsure of what to say considering you were not done cooking let alone planning on what to say once she arrived.

"Is that Paprikash?" she asked as she approached the pot on the stove to take a glance for herself.

You gave a shy nod in return, "Yeah, I know you've been stressed lately with this and all." You used your free hand to motion to the surrounding building, referring to the fact she became an Avenger. "So, I wanted to do something to help, to bring you comfort. And, I know you said once that your favorite food was something from home, but I couldn't remember the name of it. But, fortunately, I was able to find it with my expertise in searching things on the internet. Ok, wait... that sounds weird—"

You stopped rambling once Wanda turned away from the stove to face you. Immediately, you noticed the tears forming in her eyes. Being the anxious person you were, you had assumed this was because of something you had done wrong. "No, no. Please don't cry, Wands. Did I make it wrong? I can make something else, or I— I can change it if I need to..."

It appeared to be quite the opposite, though. Wanda walked toward where you were standing only a few feet away. She looked up at you, taking in the genuine expression of concern on your face. No one has ever cared this much for her, excluding the family she once had when they were alive. So, she wrapped her arms around your abdomen and pulled your body as close to hers as possible. With her head resting on your shoulder near the collarbone (and your head laying on her own), you both relished in the comfort of the embrace. You brought your arms to her back, alternating between trailing your hand in up-and-down motions and in circles. Never had a hug felt so warm and relieving.

"No," she broke the silence after a moment had passed. "It's perfect, truly, Y/N. It's everything. I— I don't know how to thank you."

"You being here is enough."

The two of you ate the dish together in the peace of your own company. You found a spare bottle of rosé in Tony's cabinets, taking it to the table to be poured as needed. She loved it, as she had anticipated; yet, she loved your reaction almost as much as the food itself. You had told her that you had never had Paprikash before, that this was the first time you had eaten the dish let alone make it (which is one of the reasons why you were nervous). So, she waited impatiently with her bottom lip between her teeth as you took the first bite.

You had to admit, it was very good. In fact, it was so good that you let out a moan due to the combination of flavors currently occurring in your mouth. Upon realizing the sound you just realized, blood began to rush to your cheeks; the wine did not help the involuntary blush forming. The Sokovian laughed, not noting the latter events, and the two of you resumed eating the food and drinking the wine as conversation flowed easily.

It felt like you were transported back in time to the night you first met, feeling a similar buzz radiating under your skin. It took a similar effect on Wanda; therefore, you two decided to retire to her bedroom in the compound for the evening. It was late and you were not exactly the most sober, so she didn't want you driving home.

"Well, how could I say 'no' to a sleepover?" you supplied, humorously.

She smiled, and a sort of gleam came into her emerald eyes. Having been practically raised by sitcoms, she had always wanted something like this during her youth: a cliché sleepover with her best friend. She told you as such, "Good. I'm excited... I've never had a sleepover before, so..."

The shock you felt from that statement must have been evident on your face, for the gleam began to fade a bit while her expression slightly fell. "Well, that just won't do. We have to make this the best, classic, all-American girl sleepover. We need movies, snacks, blankets, and pillows. Do you have a game? Actually, never mind that. We can just do a verbal game like Truth or Dare or 20 Questions."

The plan you began drafting out loud caused the shine to return to Wanda's eyes. For hours, you spent your time in a fort you two built out of several blankets and pillows on the floor. The space was confined, requiring the two of you to lay as close as humanly possible. You watched two movies on your laptop, then switched to playing some games. You ended up playing 20 Questions, wherein you discovered some interesting things about each other. To summarize the most important conclusions, it was found out that: she has a guilty pleasure for stealing other people's clothes (specifically, oversized items like sweats or shirts), and you often took smoke breaks when you got stressed or overwhelmed (she liked to joke, saying she could tell that you were a "little stoner" at heart). However, the most intriguing discovery that was unearthed during the game was the potential that the other was not straight. During a round in which you were asked about your celebrity crush, you quickly gave your answer: "Florence Pugh or Brittany Snow. I don't know; they're both hot, honestly."

While you weren't exactly ashamed of your sexuality, you weren't sure of her opinions regarding the subject and didn't want to risk losing her. It never really came up in past conversations. As you registered what you just admitted, you kept your gaze down toward the carpet where you two were sitting. She gave a hum of approval, "I totally get it. Brittany in Pitch Perfect? Stunning. Florence in the Little Women remake? Perfect."

You looked up, finally allowing your eyes to meet hers. Obviously, she could tell you were succumbing to the nerves of your mind (it also helps when her powers make sensing others' strong emotions very easy). She remained in the same position from before, but her hand reached for the one resting in your lap. Taking it in hers, she gave it a gentle squeeze; the grasp strong enough to let you know she's not going to leave you. "I do not care if you're gay, Y/N. You know that, right? I don't mind women myself from time to time. It honestly depends on their personality more than their gender, you know?"

You have never felt so relieved and understood by another individual. You acknowledged her with a quick, almost unnoticeable nod. "Good," she continued with her classic smile on her face. "Wanna watch another movie?"

Sheltered by the blanket structure, you two resumed the positions of laying on the floor. This time, as the movie played on the computer in your lap, you felt her head lean on your soldier. Then, her right hand gradually crept closer to your left hand. Minutes later, her fingers were threaded between yours. At first, your heart was beating fast because you were nervous — she was making you nervous. As if she sensed this (which she did), she was able to calm you by using her thumb to rub the back of your hand.

You didn't have time to think about what it all meant that night; the two of you immediately fell asleep, and the rather serious elements of the night were seldom mentioned. Although, you only had one thought relating to Wanda before succumbing to slumber: Oh God.

And I chose you, The one I was dancing with, In New York, no shoes, Looked up, at the sky and it was...

Honestly, you were not sure if you were going to ever mention these newfound feelings you felt for the Sokovian. You wanted her to come to you, relying on whether or not she felt comfortable. While you wanted nothing more than to know whether or not she returned the sentiment, you also recognized she is in a fragile position. For instance, what if you tell her, and she totally freaks and doesn't want to be friends anymore? Or, what if she thinks that you don't want to be friends if she doesn't like you back, leaving her thinking she'll lose you? To say you were spiraling oftentimes about the situation was an understatement.

It didn't occur all of the time, though. In fact, the times you were simply spending moments with Wanda were enough to satisfy you, for that's all you truly wanted at the end of the day: her and her happiness.

About four months after you had met at the party, you were laying in Wanda's room at the compound. You were scrolling through your phone, looking at emails from the past few days that you had missed. Wanda, on the other hand, was reading a book she had just bought from a local bookstore. The room was under a comfortable silence; that is, until Wanda broke the silence with a random question: "Have you ever seen stars? I mean, in the sky... as the movies show them?"

"You haven't?"

It was not the best reply, looking back on it. The surprised tone could come across as judgmental — and, it definitely must have. The Sokovian began to sink into herself, her gaze lowering and the volume of her voice almost completely reduced. "No, I haven't," she said in a shaky response. "When I lived near Novi Grad, there were rarely nights where the sky was clear of clouds and fog enough to see any stars. Also, being locked in a cell made it quite difficult in terms of getting outside to see them. I haven't really stopped to think about it again until now."

You realized your mistake, "Sorry, Wands. I didn't mean to say it like that, like I was judging you. It's just weird to think, I guess, that you haven't seen them." There was a slight pause in your speech, "You know what? Come on." You grabbed her arm, pulling her off of the bed with you. The sudden action caused her to drop her book, but she was too occupied with trying to figure out what you were up to care about the forgotten novel.

"Where are we going, Y/N?"

"You'll see," you replied in a confident but excited tone.

"Y/N," she chuckled, loosening up. "We don't have our shoes on."

As the two of you entered the elevator, you pushed the button to take you to the highest possible floor. "Eh, shoes are for losers, anyway."

The ride took a minute or two, but the doors eventually opened in an achingly slow manner. You knew the sky would be clear tonight, therefore there would be stars visible in the upstate New York region. You took her hand in yours and dragged her outside to the rooftop.

"Well, look up!" you said, surely.

Wanda took a deep breath, then she hesitantly lifted her head. She gasped at the sight: hundreds or thousands of little white dots littered the dark, night sky. It was beautiful; there was nothing to compare it to in that regard.

She hugged you, similarly to how she did the night you made her favorite dinner for the first time.

"Do you like it?" you whispered into the ear that was conveniently located close to your mouth.

The Sokovian gave a slight nod, "I love it. I don't think I have ever seen something so extraordinary."

You nodded your own head in an unspoken agreement. The two of you just stayed there, remaining in the comfort of each other's arms as you took in the sights around you. After several moments passed, Wanda suddenly lifted her head to look directly into your eyes.

"Dance with me," she unexpectedly requested. It was not posed as a question, so you didn't think you had a choice in the matter (not that you'd deny her of anything she wanted anyways).

You moved your arms to be placed on her shoulders, encircling her neck; her arms maintained their positions around your waist. She moved her body closer, leaning near to the point that her forehead was resting against yours. This position should've been awkward — it would've been had it been anyone else; with Wanda, it felt so natural. Under the stars, the two of you simply swayed in the cool breeze of the August air.

"Y/N?"

You hummed.

"I choose you."

Your heart must have skipped multiple beats at that moment, but it did not stop you from giving your own confession: "I choose you, too."

In a speed that can only be deemed as torturous, you waited as Wanda slowly leaned in closer. Her eyes were constantly switching between your eyes and your lips. "Can— Can I kiss you?"

"Please," you practically whimpered.

Her head finally tilted and got closer until it hit — absolute fireworks. As her lips gracefully touched yours, you allowed your eyes to flutter shut to fully experience the moment in the most sensual way. It was not rushed or needy; it was the opposite, defined by the intimacy and passion that cannot possibly be found elsewhere. You could not think about anything other than how her rose-colored lips felt against yours. It is like the moment in which you finally find that missing piece that perfectly fits, bringing the puzzle all together; she's the missing piece, and your life is the completed puzzle.

As the kiss ended, you reluctantly pulled away. Her eyes remained closed at first, but they opened soon after. Her piercing green eyes never failed to stun you, not since the first day your own eyes landed upon her. You took your right hand, pushing a few strands of hair that had fallen to go behind her ear. She took her bottom lip between her teeth.

"What are you nervous about?" you inquired, noting the habit.

Her eyebrows furrowed, "What do you mean?"

"You were biting your lip," you explain. "You only do that if you're nervous about something, like when you first talked about Sokovia or when you just wanted me to like the Paprikash because it's your favorite."

It was not the response she expected, but something about it made Wanda like you even more than she had previously. "Nothing, truly. I just really like you... just in case the kiss we had did not prove that enough."

"I can't even begin to describe how much I like you, Wanda. You make me so inexplicably happy; you have for a while now."

"A while, huh?" she teased, her signature smirk forming.

Unfortunately, so did your blush as you conceded, "About three months, give or take."

The Sokovian tried to do the mental work to deduce the time period, "Around the night of the sleepover?"

The blush on your cheeks brightened, and you gave a nod to affirm her response.

"We got there, eventually," she offered.

"Yeah," you agreed with a grin. "We did."

You couldn't resist the temptation any longer and shifted your head to give her more kisses. You started with light butterfly kisses on her jawline. Slowly but surely, you transferred to her cheek, to her forehead, to the tip of her nose, then — finally — locked your lips to hers.

If you could kiss her for hours, you would; so, you did. That night under the sea of stars, you two repeatedly exchanged kisses loaded with all of the feelings that had been pent up inside for a while.

The burgundy on my t-shirt when you splashed your wine into me, And how the blood rushed into my cheeks, so scarlet, it was- The mark you saw on my collarbone, the rust it grew between telephones The lips I used to call home, so scarlet, it was maroon...

You weren't sure exactly when you knew it was love. Obviously, you have known you loved her as a person for a while considering she was your best friend; but, romantic love — loving her as a partner, your supposed other half — is entirely distinct from that sort of platonic love of friends and family.

In retrospect, you think it has to be New Year's Eve. It was below freezing outdoors, leaving residents confined to the inside of their homes. This was not an issue for you and your girlfriend, for you two would never complain about the need to cuddle with each other for extra warmth.

Due to the holiday, Tony was throwing another extravagant party, which you two had obviously been invited to attend. That is how you found yourself in this predicament:

You had been standing out on the balcony for about fifteen minutes; it was getting a bit hectic inside with many people being in attendance. Normally, you'd just seek Wanda for comfort; however, you couldn't find her, leaving you to your own devices. The only immediate solution you could think of was to exit the situation by standing on the balcony in the cold air.

Though you'd been lost in thought for a while, a pair of familiar hands brought you back to the present. They tangled around your waist, one pulling you close to the front of the body behind you and the other holding a glass of red wine.

"дорогая, what are you doing out here? It's freezing," she moved her face closer to your neck. You tilted your head to the side in order to give her more access. She took advantage of this offer, peppering sweet kisses to the side of your neck. "Are you okay?" she asks, the concern evident in her voice.

"Yeah, I'm okay now," you confirmed, trying to ease her mind in the way that she does yours. "I just felt overwhelmed in there... a lot of people."

She gave a hum of agreement, "I don't even know how he knows that many people."

Her comment elicited a small laugh from you, which she took as a good sign of your emotional well-being. You let out a whine of annoyance when she briefly let go of you. As you turned to face her, though, your arm must have nudged the hand holding the glass of wine. Before anything could be done, the red liquid began to seep into your attire.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry," Wanda raised her empty hand to cover her mouth in shock. "дорогая, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spill it. Oh my God, I ruined your clothes."

Meanwhile, you tried saying her name multiple times to try to stop her ranting. You understood it was not her fault; if anything, it was mainly yours for lacking basic spatial awareness. Eventually, you realized she would not stop on her own accord; thus, you placed your lips on hers in a final attempt to get her to slow down before she officially spiraled.

When you finally pulled away, she kept her eyes close because she was afraid of your rejection. "Wanda?" you pleaded. "Wanda? Baby, can you please open your eyes for me?"

In an apprehensive manner, she revealed her eyes to you. If the tears were not sufficient in proving her internal panic, you could feel the anxiety that was radiating from her body. "It's okay. I promise that it is okay, baby. Accidents happen, okay?"

She sniffled, clearly upset but relieved that you were not mad at her for the mistake. You raised your hands to her face, using your thumbs to wipe the lonely tears that began to slowly roll down her lightly-freckled cheeks. As you did so, the two of you stared into each other's eyes in an endless endeavor. You could barely make out the sound of a countdown coming from indoors:

"10..."

You moved to be as close to her as you could.

"9..."

"Wanda..." you said.

"8..."

You kept your thumbs stagnant now, simply cupping her face between your hands.

"7..."

"Y/N?"

"6..."

She followed suit, circling your torso with her hands.

"5..."

"I— I want to tell you something."

"4..."

"What, дорогая?" she pondered aloud, genuinely curious as to what you were about to say.

"3..."

"I love you, Wanda Maximoff. Not even with just my heart, I love you with my whole being."

"2..."

Your novel confession caused her breath to hitch in her throat. The tears that you had just wiped away were now returning with fervor.

"1..."

"I love you, too. I love you so much."

Thus, as the clock struck midnight signaling the start of a new year, you kissed the woman you loved with such a deep, irreplaceable passion. You felt like you could never come down from this high.

When the silence came we were shaking blind and hazy, How the hell did we lose sight of us again? Sobbin' with your head in your hands Ain't that the way shit always ends?

Looking back on your relationship, it was evident that you were susceptible to naïveté. When the clock strikes midnight, it does not stay midnight. The minutes will keep passing, for time does not stop for anything or anyone. Unfortunately, you had to find this out the hard way:

"Y/N?" you heard your girlfriend call you from a nearby room.

"In here!"

As she walked into the room, there was an unusual heaviness in her step. The atmosphere around you, too, was spoiled; it made you feel uneasy.

"Is something wrong, Wands?"

Given that she couldn't meet your gaze and continued to play with the rings on her fingers, it was evident that she didn't want to say whatever she had to, or that she simply didn't know how to do it in the first place: "I have to leave. I won't be back for a while."

"What do you mean?" you became even more confused. "Wanda, what the hell? What do you mean you have to leave? You have to go where? Go... Why?"

She stepped further back in favor of pacing the room. "I— I don't know, Y/N. They want me... the government, I mean... because of this mess between Tony and Steve. Natasha is setting up a safe house and a fake identity for me somewhere, most likely not on this continent. I'm so sorry. I don't want to go, but you're not safe as long as I'm here. I can't let you get hurt because of me... that has happened enough times in my life."

"No, Wanda," you cried out, not believing the words were actually true. "No! I— this isn't happening. No, you're not leaving."

"дорогая..." she trailed off, unsure of how to express her sympathy.

"No!" you began to yell, officially beyond upset. "You can't leave me; I refuse. I don't care whether you think I'm safe or not. You don't get to make that decision for me; we make that choice together. I want to be with you, Wanda! I love you; please don't leave me."

The sight unfolding before the Sokovian was heartbreaking. She could only repeat her earlier words, "I'm sorry, дорогая... I will always love you, Y/N, no matter what."

With your arms shakily encircled around your noticeably trembling body, you attempted to find solace. Further, your red face had tears flowing with no end. Wanda eventually gathered the encourage approach you. Initially, you tried to resist it by pushing her away or shrugging her off. You were so frustrated, wanting to show her that you were upset she was leaving you when you two could have stayed together. But, you gave in, for you'll always need her comfort in the end. You probably looked pathetic as you held onto her, sobbing into her chest with your arms clutching hers as if she'd fade away at any moment. Then again, you have never felt your heart physically break as much as it did that day.

Unfortunately, that sentiment didn't last very long. Only a few months later you received a call from an unknown number. Before the Avengers left and began to hide around the globe, you never would have answered the call of an unknown number. However, you know Wanda was also told not to contact you. At least, she would not be able to contact you with her personal phone, which she had left at your place with you.

Actually, you were on her phone when it happened. Oddly, you were feeling okay that day. It felt like the weight of the sadness was lifting, beginning to understand this situation would all be temporary. So, you allowed yourself to finally open her phone and scroll through all of the pictures and videos she had of you two. As you were watching a video that she took of you and her at Christmas last year, the call from the unknown number came through on your own phone. You stood silent for a moment, as if the phone would sense your presence and stop ringing if you moved a muscle. Your subconscious freeze ended, and you scrambled to the phone upon thinking about the possibility that Wanda is finally calling you after these past few months on the run.

You were close; the phone call was from Natasha. You knew she had been keeping tabs on Wanda in the beginning. You assumed she was currently acting as the middleman for a message from Wanda — you were very wrong.

"Hello?"

"Y/N?" the voice came through the speaker.

"Natasha? Is that really you? Hello? Oh my God, is everything alright? Wanda... how's Wanda? Have you heard from her? She hasn't contacted me at all this whole time, and I'm starting to get worried. Has it been too long? Natasha, what is happening? I'm scared..."

"Y/N..."

You didn't like that tone. It's the one someone uses when they know something is wrong, but they don't want to tell you that said thing is wrong. It was at that point you knew something was really wrong.

"No, Natasha. No. Tell me. I need to know. I love her, Natasha. I deserve to know."

"Wanda... she's— she's gone."

Time will never stop for anything or anyone; that principle was evident long ago when you two first confessed your love for each other on the balcony on New Year's Eve. That does not mean time cannot exponentially slow down. For at this moment, that is exactly what happened. As if your body took over for your mind, you went on autopilot: hanging up the phone on Natasha without any words being said and falling onto your knees in a fit of despair. The sob released from within can only be described as primitive, and the feeling as permanent. You clutched your chest, similar to the way you did when Wanda first told you she'd have to leave months ago.

That is not to say you blame Wanda or anyone around you, including yourself, for the outcome of today. You know there was no way of knowing, so logically nothing could've been changed in the end nor the beginning.

You were bound to be alone. Wanda wouldn't be there to hold your hand when you watched a movie, gently kiss the side of your neck when you were overwhelmed, or worry herself at the silly mistakes she made; she wouldn't be there to roll her eyes at your admittedly stupid jokes, kiss your lips while you made dinner for the two of you, or hold you in bed after a long day or a terrible nightmare. But, most importantly, Wanda — the love of your life — wouldn't be there to get married to you, raise the three children you two always wanted (because "one is not enough and two is average, but four is definitely too much"), or experience the other joys of spending the rest of your lives together as you two had intended.

At first, you were just sad all of the time. It was an endless pit of despair, rendering you hopeless. You had your whole life planned with her being in it; how could you ever live that same life, especially happily, now that she's not here to experience it with you?

Then, a switch occurred in your mind one day. The sadness quickly faded into a wave of hateful, vengeful anger. It felt like your body and soul were constantly plagued with so much anger and hurt, because how dare this happen to you two? How dare this happen to her after she's already been through and lost so much? And, how dare this happen to you after you finally found your person?

The worst of it all is it felt like you still see her everywhere, from the compound to the grocery store. Even today, there are constant reminders making it impossible for you to escape the maroon lens Wanda had left on your life. You had once perceived the maroon to be a sign of warmth and love, of Wanda herself; how could you possibly have known that one day all it would come to mean was the seething red of anger?

End.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #marvel imagines #limarieb #limarieb wanda maximoff #taylor swift #songfic

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demondamage · 1 year

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MediwhumpMay Day 7 - First night in the Hospital

I am once again not feeling comics, so have a drawing and writing instead.

CW Restraints, intimate-ish whumper

General art tag list: @whump-queen@whumpsday@whumpinthepot@kixngiggles

@mediwhumpmay

"I hope you understand the necessity of these." Kotarou sighed gesturing to the extensive restraint system holding Aziphem into place. "With time hopefully we can replace them with... less invasive measures.

As unmoving as those black eyes were, Aziphem's third eye betrayed him, following every move Kotarou made as he pulled up a rolling chair and clip board. That would be dangerous in the wild, but Kotarou had caged enough demons to know their limits.

"You might not remember me, they had your body temp pretty low last time I saw you. I don't think you were conscious." He tried a comforting smile. "I go by Kotorou, and I've been here for... well close to 12 hundred years by now if my math is right. So, you're in well experienced hands. You could consider me.. a doctor of sorts."

Unwavering silence responded, that single vertical eye affixed to him. A little unnerved, Kotarou flipped through the pages on his clipboard.

"It uh, seems last you heard you were going to be executed. Go in to freeze and never wake up. So, this must be a little bit of a... shock. But you might be worth so much more to us, and as such I was able to indefinitely stall the execution. As long as you are... scientifically useful you will be allowed to remain alive. Of course... I do have higher hopes than just that. The unique circumstances surrounding your turning make you a prime candidate for rehabilitation. You could be a first for history."

Pulling his chair a hint closer, the angel reached out to brush a strand of hair from the demon's face. "You could be human again. Or at least close enough to live a somewhat normal life. Isn't that exciting?"

Finally reacting, the demon snarled and jerked forwards, yet failed to faze the angel. Cornered animals may be unpredictable, but the length of chain never wavered. He smoothed the hair to the side, feeling the grease lingering on his fingers.

"You need a shower. And a change of attitude." He chuckled, standing up. "If you think that these outbursts will change my mind, you don't know what's coming little demon. But don't worry, I won't give up on you so easily."

#whump #whump art #mediwhumpmay #mediwhumpmay2023 #demon whumpee #angel carewhumper #carewhumper #intimate ish whumper #demondamageart #whumplr #Aziphem #Kotarou

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quietblueriver · 10 months

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Please find below 4k of quickly written and mostly unedited pride fluff inspired by the revival news.

Happy Pride, and happy Warrior Nun, y'all. <3 <3

Ava’s first pride was with her mother. She remembers being outside, her mom’s laugh loud and generous, her joyous friends lifting Ava on their shoulders and spinning her around to take it all in, everything bathed in color. There was so much to see and hear, and she felt small but not scared surrounded by so many people, delighted when someone dancing in the parade wrapped a feather boa around her neck gently and with a wink. Her mom had taken her home before the parade was over, Ava fighting sleep and swaying against her side in the afternoon sun.

She’d felt no shame as she got older and realized that she found a wide spectrum of people and genders to be attractive. She hadn’t been raised to believe in God and her life at St. Michael’s definitely didn’t change her mind. She’d figured out real fucking quick that the nuns at St. Michael’s were full of shit. There was absolutely no way Sister Frances, fountain of hate, knew what she was talking about when it came to literally anything beyond being a fucking bitch. She sure as shit didn’t know anything about love. Ava was more likely to listen to an avocado’s directions about how to live her best life. Anyway. The nuns spouted bullshit but she knew better. She had been taught better. Like her mom’s laugh and the soft fur of her favorite tabby under her fingers, Ava clung to the memory of her mother surrounded by men and women and people dressed in bright colors and dancing, together and happy and beautifully themselves.

“Bea?”

She’s standing in front of her dresser, staring into the open drawer where she keeps her t-shirts, all neatly folded and organized vertically so that she can see each one. It’s exactly where she was when Ava left her two minutes ago, pretending she wanted a glass of water to give Bea a minute that she would deny she needed if Ava actually asked.

“Hmm?” Her eyes remain focused on the drawer, one hand fiddling absently with the thin gold chain around her neck, taking up residence where her cross used to be. She’s in one of her favorite sports bras, tight enough to have a compressive effect, and black boxer briefs, her hair still wet from the shower and in a loose braid to keep it out of her way. It’s something precious for Ava to see her this disarmed, this at home, something she thought about when she was trapped and waiting, waiting, waiting until she could come back to this world, to a real life, to Bea, in whatever capacity she would have her. The fact that Bea wants her like this, in all the ways Ava had ever hoped and in the home they’re building together, is sometimes enough to leave her breathless.

She steps into the room but leaves several feet of space between them. It’s a dance, figuring out how to love Bea best, and Ava still sometimes misses a step. As always, her instinct is to wrap herself around Bea like a koala, but she knows that Bea has to be the one to make the move right now. She would welcome Ava; she always does, but it’s different when she thinks Ava wants something. Because she was raised by shitheads, her default, when Ava wraps her up in moments like this, is to feel it like a threat: Make the right choice because this is what you have, yes, but this is also what you can lose. She had nearly had a panic attack even admitting this to Ava, stilted and red-faced and ashamed one night after a therapy session. “It’s not about you, I swear. I know you love me. I’m just not used to love like yours.” There is no part of Ava that doesn’t want to throw down with Bea’s parents.

She focuses, instead, on what she can do. It is Ava’s privilege to learn how to love Bea in the ways that let her feel it most, and right now that means standing close but not too close, a physical signal that she’s there if Bea wants her but that she has no expectations.

“You sure you want to go? It’s really, really okay if you don’t. We could just go to Rosa’s later, if something smaller would be better. Or we can stay home! No pressure, is what I mean.”

Beatrice looks at her then, eyes soft and with a small but genuine smile. The halo gives a little hum with Ava’s exhale. They’re in agreement about Bea, as always: beautiful.

“I want to go.” She turns her body to face Ava, one hand still on her chain. “I want to go with you.” Ava grins big, lets every fucking bit of affection show on her face, in her body, in the halo’s light, kept dim enough not to be outrageous in the space of their bedroom but still obvious, and Bea’s own smile grows just a little, her cheeks coloring. It’s strange in the very best way to see her be bashful. She looks down at her body and adopts the contemplative face that Ava fell in love with, all strong, sharp, serious lines and pursed lips. “I just don’t know what to wear. Is that,” she turns back to the drawer and shakes her head, “Is that silly? I feel…I feel a bit silly.”

Ava steps closer then, an offer of help, and stops just behind Beatrice at the dresser. The way she immediately leans back into Ava’s space, drops the chain to pull one of Ava’s arms around her almost absently, lets Ava know she made the right decision. Ava presses onto her toes and hooks her chin over Bea’s shoulder so that she can look into the drawer. Not that she doesn’t already know exactly what’s in there—she wears Bea’s clothes as often as her own.

“It’s not silly at all. Do you want…how, um, how on theme do you want to be?” There is nothing in Bea’s drawer that Ava would describe as loud or showy—she tends toward muted colors and conservative cuts even now that her vows are barely visible in the rearview. Still, there are options.

“I don’t think I have anything particularly appropriate? I suppose…” she reaches for a lavender t-shirt, the same one Ava had been eyeing for her, thick cotton with a front pocket and a slightly faded neckline. Ava wraps her other arm around Bea’s waist and squeezes, presses a kiss to her cheek before dropping back down. “That’s perfect, baby.”

“Really?” It’s tentative in a way that Bea rarely is, and Ava’s heart aches.

“Yes, absolutely.” She thumbs at the waistband of Bea’s underwear and bites her lip before adding, “I mean, you’re rocking this look but I figured you didn’t want to wear it out.” She feels Bea’s gentle laughter. Mission accomplished.

“No, I’m not quite there yet. Maybe next year.” She’s feeling good enough to banter, even if only a little, which loosens something in Ava’s chest. A deep breath and exhale and then she feels more than sees the shift in Bea’s demeanor, her shoulders squaring up and feet spreading evenly. There is no leather tunic, no bo, no stash of knives (well, there’s always at least one, in a boot or a waistband or a subtle sheath under her shirt and across her back but like, of course). This is a different kind of armor—the control in her body, the appearance of confidence and competence. There’s more than a little fake it til you make it happening right now, but that’s fucking great, and nobody but Ava is going to know anyway. All they’re going to see is a very hot, very self-assured human, and Ava’s going to enjoy watching Bea get flustered by the women who will absolutely be looking in a totally unsubtle way.

She presses a last kiss to Bea’s shoulder blade and then pulls away, stepping over to their closet and pulling out a pair of black jeans that are a go-to for Bea, comfortable and neat and tapered but not too tight. She lays them carefully on the bed and then steps back toward the door as Bea slips into the clothes.

She looks incredibly handsome, as always, and Ava tells her so, whispering into her ear and then kissing her soundly. Impressively, she only lets her hands wander a teeny tiny amount. Bea looks down at herself and then says, “It’s not very colorful.”

Ava bounces on her toes and claps her hands once, brings them to together to a point under her chin. “Well! I have some ideas, if you want to add a little color.” She pulls Bea into the living room and presses gently on her shoulders, sitting her on the sofa and then walking to pull a tote from one of the hooks by the door. She’d been out this morning to get them coffee and also grabbed some supplies.

“Okay, so.” She rummages through and sits her bounty one by one on the coffee table. “We have face paint, nail polish, markers, body glitter. Oh! And!” She drops the bag and bounds into their bedroom, returning with a small box that she’d nearly forgotten about. “I got you these. Pinkwashing is bullshit but like all of the proceeds go to a shelter for queer youth and also it’s Pride and these are great and you’ll look amazing in them.” She hands Bea the box and then adds hastily, “If you want to wear them! No pressure. I will obviously also look amazing in them.”

She doesn’t say the rest—that she knew Bea wouldn’t have the same kind of options as Ava, whose closet is as full of color and energy as she is. Today, she landed on high rise denim shorts and a blue cropped tank with a short-sleeve button-down, pink and purple gradient, knotted overtop. There is a streak of pink at the front of her hair, and she’d traded shoes with Rosa, who lives two doors down, for the weekend, so she’s got one pink high top and one purple. She’s a walking bi flag and she feels great about it.

Beatrice is smiling down at the box, and she pulls out the rainbow sunglasses with a grin, situating them on her face and yes, she looks very, very good and also relaxed, which is the point. Ava has no real option but to kiss her, sliding into her lap and pushing the glasses to rest in her hair.

“You’re so hot.”

She blushes, as always, and rolls her eyes a little, but she doesn’t protest, is learning through therapy and a lot of positive reinforcement from Ava to let the compliments stand even if she doesn’t quite believe them. “I love you, too.” Ava grins and kisses her nose, doesn’t move from her lap but angles her torso slightly back toward the table.

“Now. Want me to do a lesbian pride flag on your cheek? Or your arm? Or some glitter? It rolls on.” She eyes the clock. They’re going to find a spot near the end of the route, closer to their apartment, so there’s not a rush. “We still have time for nail polish, even, if you want.”

Bea situates her hands on Ava’s hips, which is excellent, and looks at the pile on the table. “Maybe a flag on my cheek?” Ava nods decisively and reaches to pick up the face paint markers. “Yes, ma’am.” She pulls the top from the orange and moves to get the best angle.

Beatrice grew up in London, so she’d seen Pride, but only from a distance. “It was the first time I heard my father use a slur,” she told Ava the afternoon that they’d seen the pride flag go up in their favorite coffee shop, head in her lap on their sofa, Ava’s fingers carding through her hair. “It was the summer after Year Two, I think. We hadn’t started summering at the house in France yet.” Ava had not, for once, teased her for using the word summer as a verb. “We were out for…something. I don’t remember, but there were people walking to the parade and we could hear the music. They looked so happy, and I couldn’t stop watching them, even though I knew I shouldn’t let my father see me. When he noticed me staring, he grabbed my arm so hard it bruised.” Ava’s fingers stopped only briefly, reaching down to rub Beatrice’s bicep, soothing a phantom pain. Beatrice took her hand and kissed her palm, soft, before putting it back in her hair. Taking the request for what it was, Ava resumed her previous motion.

“He said…he said terrible things for the rest of the walk back to the car, loud enough that I knew some of the people must have heard. I started crying, and it made him mad at me. He never…I didn’t cry often, as a child. I don’t think he knew what to do with me most of the time, but he certainly didn’t know what to do with tears. It took me a long time to stop. I didn’t know exactly why, then, but I already felt wrong.”

Ava held her tongue, scratched at Bea’s scalp in a way that sometimes made her arch her back in a distinctly cat-like movement, graceful and pleased. Beatrice hummed and after a few moments, she titled her head back and reached up to skim her fingers along Ava’s jaw.

“I’d like to go, I think. To Pride. I’d like to go with you.” Bea’s skin was warm under her lips as Ava moved from her forehead to her nose to her chin. “I’d love that, baby.”

-- They’re able to walk, which is nice because it’s beautiful out today and because it gives Bea a way to get rid of some nervous energy. She’d already been on a run that morning, but she’s always a little on edge, Ava’s sister warrior, and today is going to be amazing, Ava knows it, but it’s also going to be a lot.

Fifteen minutes into the walk, Beatrice squeezes Ava’s hand so hard she thinks maybe she’s missed some kind of danger or protestor or something. When she follows Bea’s gaze, though, she squeezes back just as tightly. A loud, brightly colored group has emerged from the subway and congregated around someone looking at their phone. While the younger members of the group wear bright colors—bow ties and skirts and dyed hair scattered throughout—the adults wear matching t-shirts, white with gigantic rainbow hearts and bold black letters:

Proud of My Queer Child

Proud of My Queer Grandchild

A little distance from the malformed semi-circle, an elderly man entertains a very excited kiddo who can’t be more than 8, blue tutu flying as they spin and spin. The man, Papa written in pink, white, and blue paint on his arm, is in a variation of the same shirt: Proud of my Trans Grandchild.

As Ava and Beatrice approach the little one stops twirling and says, exuberant and maybe a little dizzy, based on their wobbly stance, “Happy Pride!”

“Happy Pride!” Ava’s response is enthusiastic but hasty. She’s ready to move quickly, give Bea a pass on interaction, but Bea stops and smiles at them, so handsome in the sunlight, a tiny dash of sunscreen that Ava hadn’t noticed as they left the house covering some of the freckles on the right side of her nose. “Happy Pride,” she says, voice gentle as it always is with children.

“I like your glasses! But you’ve got, uh,” little fingers swipe to indicate the spot where the sunscreen is. Bea says, polite as ever, “Thank you. I have been admiring your tutu.” She turns to Ava, who lifts her fingers and blends. Beatrice cups her jaw. “Thank you, love.” Familiar and easy and unashamed.

“Dad! Micah! You ready?” A conclusion has apparently been reached by those congregated around the phone. Micah waves and then skips toward the woman who called for them, grandfather shepherding closely.

The motorcycles are loud enough that Ava feels them in her chest, and she can’t help but laugh.

Bea is transfixed, eyes glued to the group of women in front of them—colorful flags and bandanas, leather and love and butch women revving engines. The woman closest to them, in a leather vest with a Dykes on Bikes patch prominently displayed, throws her head back and laughs at something her partner, clutching her from behind, whispers into her ear.

“Dyke,” Bea whispered into the dark of their bedroom at Cat’s Cradle a few weeks after Ava’s return. They were learning each other in new ways in a new world, this life and the next all in one, and Bea was trusting Ava with another piece of herself. She explained with a pained voice and silent tears the way her father had nearly spat at her when her parents found her kissing another girl, innocent and exploring, in the kitchen. “My mother slapped me and he called me a dyke. They sent me to Switzerland the next day.”

Now, Bea wraps an arm around Ava’s waist and pulls her closer with a confidence that makes Ava and the halo want to burst. Ava wraps her own arms around Bea, squeezing, and leans up to kiss her cheek. Strong fingers catch her chin as she turns away and then Bea’s lips are on hers, sure and solid and tasting of coconut sunscreen chapstick. Ava smiles into it and leans her forehead against Bea’s as they break apart, happy and so fucking proud.

The crowd roars when the bikes start moving, the parade on its way again, and Ava joins them, yelling and unlocking her hands from Bea’s waist so that she can wave. Beatrice is quiet, but she’s smiling, really smiling, and she startles a laugh when a dyke revs at an impressively loud and coordinated wolf-whistle from a nearby section of the crowd.

They’ve been here for almost two hours—sound systems blasting Kylie and Beyonce and Janelle Monae, queer people dancing in leather and coordinated outfits and tiny, tiny swimsuits. More than one marcher has winked at one or the other of them, Ava delighted and Bea, as predicted, flustered and precious.

There are corporate-sponsored floats fucking everywhere and it’s very, very white, and Ava knows that Beatrice, who is as thoughtful in her queerness as she is in everything, will want to talk about it later. (She bravely asked Rosa and Cleo, her partner, older London natives who have been active in the queer scene since before she and Bea were born, about how to get more involved in community. And a growing stack of queer reading material—poetry and fiction and theory and memoir— sits in a neat stack on her bedside table and on two designated shelves in their living room. Ava is partial to fiction and the queer internet, but she’s happy to listen to anything Bea wants to read her, steady heartbeat in one ear and measured voice in the other.) For the moment, though, she watches and watches and watches as it all passes by.

At one point, a drag troupe dressed in habits with incredible makeup traipses by as the Sister Act soundtrack plays. Ava’s nervous for a minute, but Bea only bites her lip, expression amused rather than offended. One of the queens opens a fan with a flourish, and it’s covered in a shockingly detailed copy of The Last Supper, the disciples all in drag. A snort, ungraceful and unguarded, and then Bea is laughing so hard she’s shaking. Ava can’t look away.

By the time they enter hour three, they’re both flagging a little, and Ava wants to go home for a bit and nap because she absolutely wants to take Bea dancing tonight, so she tugs at Bea’s bicep and says loudly enough to be heard over the music (an Elton John remix?), “I’m happy to stay as long as you want, but I’m also happy to go home. I will need a nap before we go out tonight.” She does not phrase it as a question and she can’t see Bea’s eyes but she knows that they’re rolling fondly as Bea’s lips purse in amusement. “Oh, are you going out tonight?”

Ava pouts shamelessly because she knows what she wants and she knows how to get it. “We are going to a drag show and then dancing.” It’s an easier ask than Pride. They’ve done it before, even within the last month. The clubs are dark and anonymous and Bea genuinely loves dancing, and dancing with Ava especially.

Ava notices the banner of the next group before Bea can respond and nudges her quickly. “Bea. Look.” She does, immediate and reflexive, and then she keeps looking.

Christians at Pride

The groups is big, and there are colorful banners everywhere, some professionally printed and some very obviously handmade:

You are Made in God’s Image

You are loved.

Oh Happy Gay!

Thank God for Queer People

There are denominational shirts, a solid Catholic coalition packed into the middle, and at the end, a group of people whose shirts say simply: I’m Sorry. Ava has kept a close eye on Bea because, y’know, trauma, but it’s not until the end, until the I’m Sorry, that she reacts noticeably, sucking in a breath and curling one of her hands into a fist. Ava steps behind her, places a hand at the small of her back in question, and Bea reaches back for her arms.

They stand like that, Ava wrapped around her very favorite person, and watch a few more floats pass by, bass thumping up through their feet and confetti falling over them. Across the street, someone lifts a small child in a rainbow bucket hat onto their shoulders, and they sit waving and clapping happily at the queer cyclist club. The couple who have been camped next to them—Matt and Andy, about their age and into gardening and incredibly fucking cute in their tiny matching rainbow shorts and mesh tops—dips, giving them quick hugs. As they turn to leave, Andy says to Beatrice, teasing and without waiting for an answer, “See you tonight, yeah?” Ava, having resumed her previous position already, feels Bea’s laughter in her own chest.

Eventually, Beatrice turns into her and says, acting put upon but pressing even closer to Ava to be sure she knows it’s only an act, “Let’s go home and nap before we go out.”

Ava grins, victorious.

Look, Ava loves being queer. She doesn’t believe in blessings but she sure as shit believes it’s a gift to be bisexual, and she feels that deeply as she watches Bea at the bar in her slightly tighter black jeans and a fitted white tee. Her hair is down, over one shoulder, and she’s leaned forward to catch the bartender’s attention and Ava can’t believe she gets to go home with her.

She’s coming back from the bathroom, but she stops as someone slides into Bea’s space, beautifully tattooed arm reaching over to touch Bea’s elbow like it’s nothing. They’re gorgeous, newly touched-up undercut and jeans that do great things for their ass and Ava smiles as they shoot their shot.

The more they do it, the more she loves bringing Bea into queer spaces like this, because it’s where she gets the attention she quite frankly deserves and because it’s very fun to watch her navigate these interactions. Only the very smallest part of Ava wants to halo-blast this human across the room and even that is only on principle—she has absolutely nothing to worry about. More than anything, she’s happy that her partner gets some outside reinforcement for what Ava tells her all the fucking time: she’s hot.

Bea backs away immediately, says something that Ava is sure is polite but absolutely clear, and then she’s alone again. Ava makes her way over, sliding and arm around her waist and pressing a kiss to her cheek and Beatrice smiles at her and hands her a shot glass.

“Lemon drop?”

The club is full of people celebrating, evidence of the parade everywhere: sunburns and smeared paint and so much glitter. Her own arms are covered in it now, but she doesn’t mind. Ava always loves going dancing with Bea but she loves it especially tonight. They’re warm and happy and just a little bit drunk, swaying comfortably in the press of the revelry.

The music changes, an eruption as the Beyonce remix sounds through the speakers, and Bea shifts somehow closer to her, hands confidently blazing a path to the exposed skin of Ava’s waist. Ava lets her own hands roam, landing on Bea’s shoulder blades, fingers digging in as Bea breathes out against her ear, “Come home with me?”

Ava kisses her, a little filthy, and Beatrice pulls her closer. She draws back with a bite to Bea’s bottom lip and kisses a path up her jaw, lets her tongue graze skin as she answers Bea’s question the way she always does, the way she always will: “Yes.” They press out of the crowd, and Beatrice apologizes as she bumps into a crew coming into the club. “No worries, baby!” The queen is beautiful, makeup fucking impeccable, and she blows a kiss as she heads toward the bar. “Happy Pride!”

#warrior nun #avatrice #ava silva #sister beatrice #warrior nun fic

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ninadove · 10 months

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If the woman next to Nathalie is indeed Amelie and Emilie is still dead, how do you imagine Amelie and Felix will redecorate The Agreste Mansion? (Assuming that they move there since Amelie is now Adrien’s only adult relative left.)

Oh my gosh Anon. That is SUCH a cute ask, but let me tell you, you have opened Pandora’s box and unleashed 50 levels of overanalysis upon the world. Time for me to turn into an architecture and interior design major for the sake of this post.

In order to get a good sense of Amelie’s taste and of the massive work that needs to be done, let’s compare the shared spaces in the Agreste mansion to those in the Graham de Vanily penthouse.

The first thing that strikes me is that the palettes are exactly the same: white and black are the dominant hues, with a pop of colour coming from earthy tones. And yet, the two atmospheres could not be more different! In my opinion, this boils down to a few key elements: lighting, shapes, space, and purpose.

1. Lighting

The most obvious one. Just look how miserable the Agrestes’ living (?) room looks in comparison to the Graham de Vanily’s. There’s an interesting subversion here when it comes to lighting sources.

The Agrestes’ mansion relies mostly on natural lighting, which gives it a greyish, depressing look. Windows are everywhere, and they’re big, but they aren’t meant to let the sun filter through; instead, they ressemble a cage keeping Adrien in.

Sunlight represents the outside world, which Gabriel "No one matters except us" hates. In his mind, whatever looms outside of the mansion is dangerous. Hawkmoth’s attacks always start with letting the light in, the same way he welcomes his victims’ negative emotions; while he keeps Emilie safe in the crypt, as far away from the sun as possible (even when we do see it fully illuminated, it has to come from an artificial source).

Emilie’s cosy little basement, Gabriel’s office and Nathalie’s room — the adults’ world — are the only spaces that get the courtesy of significant artificial lightning. In other words, there is not enough light and joy coming in from the outside, and definitely not enough coming from the inside to compensate. Which is super sad if you ask me.

Now onto the Graham de Vanily penthouse. We do not get many shots of it, and most of them are taken at night time, which I (want to) believe is a very conscious choice on the writing team’s part.

While Gabriel refuses to let sunlight, and everything good it symbolises, into his son’s life, Amelie welcomes the night and the potential dangers it carries with it. The windows make up two entire walls, offering a full view of the outside world.

Notice how the moon and stars are nowhere to be seen in this shot, yet the penthouse remains significantly brighter than the mansion on the sunniest day. The abundance of artificial light in the Graham de Vanily home, light that comes from within, is a symbol of the love they share as a family.

So obviously, we need to get Adrien some lamps, urgently.

2. Shapes

The thing about the Agreste mansion is, it has potential.

No really. Hear me out.

The use of straight lines (vertical in the overall architecture, expanding like sun rays in the minimalistic decor) is reminiscent of Art Déco, which is a very fun style. For instance, it gave us the Chrysler building:

But here, it’s just… Not working. In fact, these same lines are what makes the entire building look like a cage — not just the windows I mentioned above, but the entire structure of the place, trapped between vertical lines like behind prison bars.

On the other hand, the Graham de Vanily penthouse is ruled primarily by horizontal lines, which expand the space instead of compressing it. It’s smaller, but it feels bigger and more breathable.

This difference in structure directly contributes to my third point:

3. Space

More precisely, how it is organised to make the mansion look threatening, and the penthouse cosy.

And by that I specifically mean this AWFUL NO GOOD TERRIBLE STAIRCASE.

It’s the first thing we think about when picturing the mansion; how it towers over the characters and crushes them. There’s a reason Marinette’s act of defiance in Pretension was to rush up those despicable horrifying very very bad stairs to find Adrien; they are a symbol of Gabriel’s power over his world, his fans, his son, his victims.

Interestingly enough, the penthouse is also built on several levels — which we can infer by the presence of a very discreet mezzanine. This implies the existence of stairs, right??? Where are they???

It’s very blink-and-you-miss it — the exact opposite of the Agreste staircase. To the Graham de Vanilys, stairs are just stairs: a necessity for their comings-and-goings, a useful infrastructure in their day-to-day life as a family. Not a display of power and control.

Oh? Is that a transition I sense? Absolutely, for it is time to move on to the last part of our analysis:

4. Purpose

Just like the staircase, every single piece of furniture in the Agreste household serves a purpose. Adrien’s room is the best example of this phenomenon.

On top of the essentials (bed + desk & computer combo), we immediately notice:

- A plethora of trophies, reinforcing the message that Adrien has to be the best at everything he does, always;

- An impressive bookshelf, illustrating the top-notch (and somewhat elitist) education Adrien has been receiving at home.

"But Nina!" you might ask, "What about the fun stuff? What about the arcade games and the basketball hoop and the climbing wall?"

I hear you. Those things look pretty cool, don’t they? Until you remember that Adrien has spent his entire life in isolation. These are all appliances that would normally be found outside of the house, giving him an opportunity to socialise. In other words, they are meant to deter him from seeking enjoyment in the “real” world. If, like me, you were obsessed with N Harmonia as a pre-teen, you might notice some striking similarities to his cage room:

Still not convinced? Say hi to our friend the foosball table!

Meanwhile, on the actually loving side of the family, you get an entire piano and AN ACTUAL ABSTRACT PAINTING:

It’s not even figurative — unlike the portraits of the Agreste family members or the statue in the garden, constantly reminding us of Emilie’s absence. It’s art for the sake of art, which makes a massive difference. Things are allowed to be there for no reason other than Amelie and Felix like them.

So now that we’ve established that

How would they redecorate the mansion if given the chance?

1. Lean into the Art Déco aesthetic for a much needed dose of actual (yet elegant) fun. There are so many lines and curves to play with to get rid of this feeling of imprisonment we get from the pillars!

2. BLOW UP THOSE FUCKING STAIRS. No, really. We can find a much cuter, less pretentious alternative to whatever kind of power trip that was.

3. Get rid of the stupid bars on all those windows. Replace them with literally any other option that doesn’t make you want to choke on a pancake.

4. Also, get some lamps. Lamps EVERYWHERE, on the walls, on the ceiling, on the furniture. The resident vampire is GONE, we can have some goddamn light in this goddamn place.

5. Indulge in the pleasure of buying things just because they’re pretty. Trash the paintings and put up some actual art (abstract or not) instead. Exorcise Emilie’s ghost and Gabriel’s tacky tastes out of this place. This process has already begun, given that the statue in the garden is now gone!

6. Let Adrien decorate his own room, and have fun with it. This part may be tricky because our boy doesn’t know what he wants, but you know what, it’s part of the process! Giving him total creative control over his own space is a first step towards his making bigger decisions for himself, like choosing what he wants to be when he grows up. As requested by my ✨ awesome girlfriend ✨ @paracosmicfawn, he can also redecorate the entryway, which carries sooo much trauma for him. Maybe he can put up some cute cat statuettes along the new staircase, or something equally cheesy.

7. Build a pool, apparently

8. Last but not least, block all accesses to the basement and the attic. Hide them behind these new Kandinsky paintings they just bought. Pray to Gimmi Adrien never finds out (he will).

And that, my friend, is how you take a prison and turn it into a home full of secrets!

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bunji-enthusiast · 1 month

Note

Heya! <3 imagine Redeemed! Scourge still has that flirty side of his, just being less(?) of a womanizer and a decent green flag now after he is done w/ his therapy and redemption arc, him flirting with the reader anytime they see each other? Reader is blushy blushy, a good old enemies to frenemies to uh “ flirting with each other " friends??

Take care!!

Romantic Affairs — Scourge The Hedgehog

Note || I like this idea a lot, thanks for sharing this fluff. I thought of doing individual sections for scenarios, but it's just one story. If that is alright <33

WC || 1,623

CW || some swearing, fluffy fluff, ooc Scourge?

Sypnosis || a train of delayed thoughts turns out to be for the better, otherwise you really couldn’t fathom how you ended up here with him.

Nothing certainly would have prepared him for this.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, actually.

You were stuck in a tree, the net holding you up broke and you decided to call Scourge to help you get down. There were branches and leaves poking at your body, some long and sharp enough to leave a scratch – It fortunately will heal with time however – you just hated the situation you were in.

“Why are you just staring?” You let out a groan, your head falling back in defeat as it laid to rest against the branch that held you up from behind. Scourge let out a wistful sigh, hands now resting on his hips.

“Babe, you kinda look adorable like this though.” He grinned, a snicker escaping him. You flinched, your limbs re-adjusting themselves so you could feel more comfortable in spite of your very uncomfortable predicament.

You groaned once again, “I am not your babe, asshole.” Your eyes darted to Scourge as you spoke, suddenly hating the color of his fur. Green was not looking good on him right now, this whole thing was filling you with temporary hatred for Scourge. He just lets out a laugh, knowing full well how you behave and act. Scourge did find amusement in this situation, but now it was enough of him standing around. He needed to start helping your poor self down from the tree.

Scourge mournfully sighs, saddened he won't be able to see you in that position anymore. You really are quite cute.

“Alright, you're gonna hafta trust me sweetheart.” You raise a brow, wondering what he meant by those words. You flinch when you see him suddenly appear on a branch next to you, with a heavy sigh, he eases you into his arms as if you were just a mere lightweight to carry. Surprising to you, but not at all at the same time.

You tend to forget what Scourge can still be capable of.

“OH!-” You yelp when he jumps down, holding onto him close as you refuse to feel that sensation of falling through the air. Scourge remained, holding you tight as he jumped through the air, falling softly against the agreeable plush softness of the grass. And for a moment, silence takes over the oddity of the embarrassments that had occurred a few moments ago. The two of you were laying vertically against the ground, holding each other close. You certainly didn’t expect this now, why was he still holding on tightly?

“Wha-” You looked down, seeing Scourge’s knowing grin. You realized you were the one holding onto him too close for comfort. Your hands immediately unlatch from his confines, you felt a foreboding adoration for the hedgehog. Cheeks blazed with embarrassment as you sat up.

“Sorry.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, waving off your apology as he sat up right alongside your position. Scourge really couldn’t resist the fondness he felt whenever he could experience your habits, it was rather nice that he was here with you then anyone else for that matter. But you weren’t so sure if you should’ve called him in the first place.

“Don’t be,” He begins, leaning back as he crosses his arms behind his head for support. Legs crossing in play in the process of the action. “I’d rather save you over any trash bag any day.” His tone of speech and words almost threw you off, causing you to glare at him to which he flinched, raising his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry! But I meant it.” He admits, sighing as he leans back once more. Scourge felt too lazy to move, this spot in the grass was already so comfortable for him. Why wouldn’t he just admire the sky and just lay there? He wonders if you are gonna stay where you are now. Scourge is (sort of) hoping that you will stay.

Your presence was one of the few things he didn’t mind, and really didn’t irritate him all that much. Much preferable to that stupid blue blur guy anyway, any note of the day his presence is enough alone to set him off.

But the two of you were friends, so he tries his best to keep it on the down low when it comes to the three of you. “Thanks.”

Now this was interesting, more so intriguing. Are you thanking him? This was new.

Scourge contemplates if this is really you right there next to him, cause if it is. He cannot believe it, even with his own ears and eyes. “Hah! Ain’t that funny?” He grins, flashing you a wink. You sigh, propping yourself up against the stands of your arm, chin in the palm of your hand.

“Don’t make me regret saying that.” You huff, closing your eyes as you spoke, “You're still somewhat of a douche.”

Scourge laughs, “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh,” You begin with a mocking tone, “I’m sorry it seems like you would.” You said, hand splayed against your chest as you winked multiple times to really sell the act.

He glares at you, uprighting himself to punch you in the arm. The force was just merely weak. “Now who’s ta douche?” He grins at you, words venomless.

Back then, he would’ve been full of bite. Now he’s just himself, nothing more and nothing less. Scourge sometimes wonders if he would’ve turned out any differently considering his past misdeeds.

“Well, nobody here’s perfect.” You reply without missing a beat, it was just as if you two were long time best friends. Too bad that wasn’t the case in the first place.

He can still remember those annoying words from his therapist now that he thinks about it.

“Huh? Whattya mean?” He raises a brow, shifting from his uncomfortable position on the sofa. Scourge wasn’t one for feeling nervousness but this damn well was not something he was used to doing regularly, his therapy sessions always made him feel weird or nervous.

“I’m saying that maybe you should consider perfection as something unattainable.” She says, remaining with her spot on the floor. He had asked her why she was like that during their first session, and said that she found it more comfortable to sit at. No thanks, the sofa was just fine and dandy to Scourge. The floor seemed highly uncomfortable for the lady. “You wanted to gain validation for your life, from someone you found in similarity with a certain one from your childhood.”

Well she spoke rather fucking bluntly, jesus.

Scourge winces, closing his eyes as he thinks about it. “I guess I was rather foolish, blind to maybe.” He mentions, scratching the back of his head. Recalling his earliest memories with his father, they weren’t pleasant but they weren’t far too nice either. He woulda guessed his father would have just thrown him out instead of just not paying attention to him, he really wished he would have still had his father to this day.

Would he even be any different then? Would he still be blue and green-eyed?

Hell no, Scourge doubts his outcome would turn out any different.

“The blame was never on you Scourge.”

That’s right, that’s what she said. You never saw him any different, as cheesy as you put it, ‘Misguided’ He never expected someone as exceptional as you to enter his life. Not now and not ever, but life never really gave him the options he liked, just working with what he had.

Being an errand boy, a bastard son, an unworthy king.

Scourge turned his hopes to the skies, feeling the worth sapping his mangled bones. Everytime and every day as a boy hoping his father would pay attention to him. But he saw the situation for what it really was, he wasn’t needed or wanted. Scourge had to make his values and economy, followed by ghosts and watery graves he built his empire.

He went down with his sinking paradise, then he rose again, then for lack of a better word he fell. Then you finally appeared in his life. His thoughts ran rampant throughout his mind, he wished he could clean them out more. Vanity surges into a mental war, he thought objectively and he slaved and obeyed. Just a toy and a boy, a worthless hedgehog.

Until it all ended, then and there he could find peace. Earn himself a better way, and build himself self-peace. Something he needed for quite sometime now.

“Hey dumbass!” You waved in front of his eyes, concern somewhat swelling within your chest. “Mobius to Scourge.” You reaffirmed with a stronger tone, you sighed a breath of relief as you saw Scourge blinking – snapping back to reality.

“I hate’cha, I was having such a happy time within my mind palace.” He grins, downing your hand with his own. Slowly, he envelops your hand within his own. Scourge found your hand to be rather inviting, but he was a little unsure of your reaction. You let out a noise of surprise, eyes widened alongside to express that clear confusion, which slowly made its way into a very blushy expression appearing on your face.

“Fuck you.”You bite, though no venom rose behind your words. You groan audibly, almost as if you were whining. Scourge chuckled, only holding your own hand with a tighter grip now. He was glad you didn’t reject this one singular advance.

Life isn’t always what you’d think it would be.

For a moment if you even turn your head, the tables will turn.

For all those times he had done you wrong, those times he had invertedly made you cry. He sore a silent but steady oath.

Let him make it up to you somehow.

#scourge the hedgehog #scourge x reader #scourge the hedgehog x reader #scourge #sonic

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toweroftickles · 1 month

Text

❤️ Valentine's Day Morsels ❤️

(A Whole Month Late 😅)

These were all supposed to be done for the holiday itself, but obviously that didn't happen. The problem is that I care way too much about my writing and try too hard to make it actually good. That's not why anybody reads this crap. Anywho, I've been in an anomalously sappy, romantic mood lately and whipped up some sugary, snack-sized tickle drabbles involving a few of my all-time-favorite (canon) fictional couples. :) Hope these are sweet enough! Disclaimer: this is all obviously just meant to be cute, silly fun.

Link/Zelda (utilizing "Wilds" era)

Whenever Purah developed a revolutionary new piece of tech for the Hylian Royal Family, she of course needed a volunteer to test it out. At those times, Princess Zelda was always on-hand to make sure she had one. And it was usually Link.

The Sheikah techie was putting the finishing touches on a new observation platform propulsion system...she called it a "Skyview Tower." The Hero of Hyrule stood in the center of the device, bracing for the upcoming vertical rush. It was somewhat against his will that he was being held in place by six clinking, clanking Guardian arms. He felt like a prisoner in the teeth of a hungry beast as they hooked him to the machine, but Purah just clicked away happily on her control Pad.

“How ya doin, Link? You comfy?” she asked him. He nodded reluctantly. "Ok, I'm gonna launch you in 10...9..."

Suddenly, at the sight of Link ensnared in the repurposed robot arms, Zelda bounced up and down and excitedly tapped her compatriot on the shoulder. “Oh! Oh! Purah, wait!”

Everything paused. The princess knelt and whispered excitedly into the inventor’s ear.

What they were talking about, Link couldn’t decipher, but he saw that in the midst of Zelda’s sentence, Purah’s smile stretched bigger and bigger. After a breathy exchange, both ladies were giggling to themselves. Uh-oh. He recognized that energetic sparkle in Purah’s eye…that only happened when she knew her tests were going to have “funny” results.

Beep. Four of the Guardian arms remained holding Link's wrists and ankles still, but the other two raised up and took on new purpose. The octopoid metal tendrils zipped around his torso, snapping their claws like hungry snakes. Their laser sights booped to life and swam their little red eyes all over him...targeting certain areas...and once Purah pressed that button again, they dove right in for the attack.

The little pincer claws skittered and tap-danced under his arms, across his stomach, between his ribs. At first he panicked. Then he grinned. Squirming and struggling, Link began to laugh.

“HHHHeh…Heheh…Heh-Heh Ha-Ha Ha-Ha! Z-Zeld…Heh! Haha!”

"See, I told you he was ticklish," the princess chuckled.

"Oooo, and you were right! This is fun! Look at him dance!"

"Heh-Heh, Heh-Heh Ha...Haha-Heh! Nn-Heh!" Bolts of Gerudo lightning didn't make Link jump around this much. It wasn’t until Zelda sauntered over and tickled him herself that the machine finally wound down.

And just like that, being shot out of an untested military-grade cannon didn't seem so bad.

******

Parzival/Art3mis (Ready Player One)

Spring Center Fortress was always a fun place in the OASIS for testosterone-soaked one-v-one games. Each arena in the cubist coliseum was a giant trampoline, regardless of size or layout, and combat was fast and frantic when no one could stand still. Only true acrobats thrived in the chaos there. Entering one of the battle boxes, Parzival and Art3mis removed their shoes and jackets and stepped barefoot onto the bouncy black floor.

"Choose your weapon, sir." Arty's declaration of war was cheekier than usual. She smirked, already sure of her victory, and make a flashy show of unveiling a fully-2D Airbender staff. Rare gear.

Parzival eagerly cycled through the digital blue pockets of his inventory...lots of options to choose from. Neither he nor Arty were pulling admin privileges and just dropping rare junk into their accounts; this loot had to be earned like everyone else’s. Oh, there was a good one...

"Toymaker Energy Bo," he finally announced. The glowing green stick popped from hammerspace and into his hands, extending four frog-like fingers from its tip that snapped and pinched at their target.

Art3mis nodded. She looked impressed. "Spy Kids 3D. Nice."

At the sound of the buzzer, a blade of cartoony wind sliced through the room and nearly split Parzival's staff in two. Their weapons clacked together as the couple danced and dodged on the springy terrain...the fight was a wild flurry of flips, leg sweeps, slides and parries. Dodging a strike at her knees, Art3mis bounced into a full backwards aerial somersault, a mere hair's breadth away from the Game Over bo's snapping claws. Just as she landed and stumbled back, the very tips of metal fingers pulled at her body, grazing against four particular spots along her torso that they couldn't quite snare.

One, on the right side of her neck. One deep in the hollow of her left armpit. One just above her hipbone. And one smack in the center of her right side, under the ribcage.

“BAH!!” Art3mis nearly slipped on the undulating floor, swiveling on her heel and pointing her finger at Wade, and had to catch her balance against the back wall. Her staff zipped off on an air current and glided away across the stadium. Disarmed. In her most stern, commanding voice, the Goddess of the Hunt blurted “Hey! No. ...Z. No tickling."

"Hey, come on, it was an accident," Parzival laughed.

For a moment everything was still, both anticipating the other's next move. But he'd seen the flash of panic on her face...blood was in the water now. Her eyes darted to her glider. Slowly, Parzival raised his staff again. Its four-pronged hand spun around and wiggled in Arty's direction, closer and closer, and the sight made her jaw clench.

“...God, sometimes I love these Boot Suits.”

“Wade, no. N...HHHA-Ha Ha-Ha! …Ng-Heh! Nuh...nonono, God n-HNN!!"

Art3mis' arms contracted, trying to block the ravenous mechanical fingers, but that only pinned them even more snugly to where they could feast on her ticklish ribs. Her trembling knees buckled. Soon she was wrestled flat onto her back and rolling around atop the rubbery floor, her leg weakly kicking at the air. The Spy Kids staff no longer attacked her...it was Parzival's own fingers that she felt clawing beneath her loose crop-top, squeezing her belly until the cackles burst out of her. The two were bouncing and wrestling and laughing until the floor squeaked. Streaks of charcoal soot blackened her soles…the trampoline's worn surface had almost-literally painted a target on her bare feet, a target which Parzival didn't ignore for long. Arty was surprised by how hard she was cracking up...and, despite the soreness in her cheeks, by how much fun she was having.

“What, what’s the matter? Ya n00b. Stop laughing.”

"Ha-Ha Ha-Ha! Uncle! Uncl-hle!"

The dull fingernails that had been scribbling beneath her toes retreated. Arty was free again. Up and down, the trampoline reverberated to the rhythm of her diaphragm's spasmodic wobbles. Even after all this time, it was still an out-of-body experience, to catch one's raspy breath as a digital avatar...when she was worn out inside the OASIS, her real-world meat puppet followed suit. Slowly she and the trampoline both calmed. She sat up, folding her arms across bent knees, and her middle finger dabbed at her eyelash.

"Ha......Ahhhhhhh Ha Ha....Huheh...Okay, okay, you got me," she chuckled. Her toes clenched up against the rubbery ground. She tried to affect a serious expression, but that wide-eyed grin of hers just wouldn't dissolve. “But don’t do that again!”

"Eh, can't make any promises," Z taunted, helping her stand. For that, he received a playful punch in the shoulder.

Like most of the OASIS, there were no real rules in Spring Center Fortress. The important thing was how you won.

******

Aang/Katara (Avatar: The Last Airbender)

Waterbender training was going...as Sokka would put it...swimmingly. Aang and Katara stood ankle-deep in the waters of Chameleon Bay, practicing their stances. Liquid swirled around them, rising and falling like tides at their command.

"How's your octopus form?" Aang's teacher asked him.

Quickly, Aang struck the proper pose and focused. A stream of ocean foam snaked upward into the air and corkscrewed multiple arcs around his body. With a twist of his arm, the water coalesced into a near-solid tentacle, its rippling surface smoothed out, and he made it sway back and forth in a friendly wave. Katara giggled. She, meanwhile, was focused on maintaining six hovering spheres of water that orbited around a rock in front of her. Gesturing with her palm, she relaxed into a simple Single Whip posture, her right knee bent and arms outstretched, and the water balls merged into a lash. She was focused and precise...and totally oblivious to what her pupil was doing.

Guided by Aang's slow dance, a water tendril slithered across the bay and breached the surface. As soon as Katara wasn't looking, its tip rose up and wiggled against her tummy - right next to her belly button.

"Ah! Haha…Aang, stop it!" Laughing, she jumped in place and covered her ticklish spot with her hand. Instantly the Avatar’s octopus construct fizzled into droplets and splashed the flowing sea below. He stood there all sheepish and rubbed the back of his tattooed head, grinning like a buffoon.

"Heh...sorry. You were wide open." Aang couldn't escape his own mischievous nature. He was 12, after all.

There was a brief and fearful pang in his stomach...is Katara mad at me? But her smile was the brightest he'd seen on the waterbender's face all week. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he could've sworn she was starting to blush. Both benders just laughed shyly and turned to face the sandbank once more.

"Alright, let's keep going."

******

Gwen/Miles (Spider-Verse)

The multiversal headquarters of the Spiders didn't just have a lockup, a science lab, and a cafeteria (no bagels allowed). There was also quite a museum of trophies and mementos gathered from past battles, defeated villains, and fallen heroes from all across the cosmic web. It was like Batman's basement on the scale of the MoMA. And Gwen couldn't wait to show Miles all she'd learned there.

Clasping one another's hands they dashed through the halls, often pulling eagerly in opposite directions. Miles was a kid in a candy store, and every time his eyes lit up, it reminded Gwen of a thousand reasons why she liked him. After passing the wrecked granite namesake of one "Big Wheel 5000 BC," the two skidded to a stop, lured by an exhibit that stood out from the rest: a single hand, perched atop a pedestal.

An Infinity Gauntlet, this was not. It was a cheap canary opera glove, with long, fluffy white feathers glued to its digits in lieu of fingernails. The plastic plaque beneath declared in full voice to the pair:

“‘The Tickler?!’" Frog-mouthed in shock, Gwen doubled over, laughing wildly. “No. Freaking. Way."***

"Are you serious right now? Ha…Wow, they just get lamer…”

"Heheh-Heh! Ok, ok; you’ve gotta hear this: 'Crude homemade weapon retrieved from Whedon Winslow, Earth-57780.' Some name... 'Failed stand-up comedian who turned to larceny. Distracted victims and pursuant Spider Society with...'"

But Miles wasn’t paying attention to Gwen's narration. He was busy cracking his knuckles and reaching toward his distracted girlfriend from behind, trying to project confidence from a playful smile that was actually quite shy. He was gonna get her so good, he encouraged himself.

In the midst of Gwen's sentence, kneading fingertips hooked right into her sensitive, squishy waistline.

Her gasp was loud and shrill. The girl almost popped like a chocolatey toaster pastry, but a right forearm encircled her collarbone and held her firmly in place. Before she knew it, Gwen was immobilized in a tickle hug and fell straight into Miles' lap as the two collapsed to the floor.

"AH!! *gasp* Huhuh-Huhuh Heheh! *gasp* Ah Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha! St-HOP ihit! We're supposed to be quiet!!"

She screamed and elbowed Miles in the stomach, but he maintained his hold. Then she tried pulling on his wrists. No good. Gwen was the most squirmy, wiggly human being Miles had ever seen; champion swimmers didn't kick their legs as hard as she did. He might as well have been trying to hold onto a hagfish in an oil spill…even with sticky fingers, it was a challenge! But watching her smile and laugh like this was so worth it.

“Wait, hold up a minute!” Miles laughed as if Gwen would actually obey him (not that she had much choice). One THWIP! of spider-silk from his wrist, and The Tickler’s glove was yanked right off its perch and into his hand. Miles didn't put it on...all he needed to do was hold one of the fingers and wield the feather like a wand.

The quills prickled like thousands of tiny needles against the nape of Gwen's goosebumpy neck...right at the signal source from whence her Spider-Sense was screeching. Any measure of defiance left in her crumbled to dust. Both of her palms slapped over her face...anything to hide it from Miles. She could have fried an egg on her cheeks for how they sizzled.

“VVVVVVVFF-EEEE!!! *Yeek!* OmigodNO - N-no feath-hers, oh my GAWWD, no feahehther-her-hers…*SNORT* AHHHMilesstoppit!” she whined and cried. The feather stroked down across her collarbone, her shoulder blade, under her armpit...

It wasn't long before one of the nigh-innumerable Spider Society horde noticed the sound of embarrassed squeals echoing throughout the gallery and swooped in to investigate. But when this particular Peter Parker entered the hall, it was found vacant. Nothing but various museum exhibits, all undisturbed in their places. And so he left.

Miles, as it turns out, had been practicing a new technique. He wasn't the only person that he could turn invisible.

"Shhh!" he whispered. Gwen was absolutely trembling in his lap, even though the tickling had stopped - it took two hands to stifle her uncontrollable belly laughs. There, with his arms around her and feeling her heartbeat against his, a warmth washed over Miles. There were a million worries flapping around inside his brain...his future with the Spiders, his parents, and he & Gwen...was it right, how they felt about each other, what they were doing? But for a few quiet moments, where nobody could see them, none of that mattered.

He almost kissed the top of her head, but got too antsy.

Maybe next time.

******

*Note: Actual Spider-Man villain. Seriously. I did not make this up.

Victoria/Misto (Cats 2019)

The Egyptian Theater was warm and sleepy that evening. The old sun-shaped stage prop created the perfect napping spot for a young Jellicle, and the white cat lolled blissfully in its hollowed-out cradle. Her left leg dangled down off the side, pendulous and swaying like a metronome, right next to her boyfriend’s nearby head. Mr. Mistoffelees was kneeling there on the floorboards directly beneath, fumbling with a deck of cards.

Victoria peered over the side of her perch and smiled, unnoticed. Just laying beside her magician (well, a bit higher and to the right of him, anyway) carried her off in a cozy bubble of comfort. She just felt content around him. Her hands couldn’t reach to pet him…not from this angle…so instead, she held her slender leg out and, with her big toe, traced gentle crescents behind his ear.

His ear twitched. At first Misto instinctively ducked away from the impromptu scalp scratch, inquisitive chuckle aside ("Heh...what are you doing?"), but he soon came around to her affection and began to purr. His head rolled around across his shoulders, his back arched, and his ears flopped and wagged. Tori could tell the scritches were making him happy. Tufts of black fur shot up like grass between her marble toes, bristling the ball of her foot back and forth, until out of nowhere it made her shiver and pull away.

"Hmhm! Hmf..." she giggled sweetly through her nose. "Your fur tickles."

The tuxedo cat grinned and looked up at her. There was his opening. "Oh, it does?" he taunted. "It does?" With one quick yank, Victoria’s foot was down near his chest, and she was laughing and gripping the sunbeams with all her might. In her meek struggle for balance, that varnished wooden nest fought back with bumpy scrapes against her stomach and her thighs. Taking hold of his tail in his left hand, Misto started painting broad brushstrokes across Victoria’s foot with its fuzzy black tip, and she immediately began to fidget. “What about this?” Misto asked her.

"Heehee-Hih! *gasp* Hn-Hih! Th-hat's not fair, I'm stuck...Hee! It tihickles," the snow-white kitten’s jubilant squeaks bubbled up from inside her. Her ears flattened shyly. Why did this kind of thing happen to her so much? She didn’t hate being tickled, but lately it felt like she’d become something of a Jellicle magnet. If this kept up, she’d have to start wearing her ballet flats 24/7.

Almost as soon as it started, Misto let her go, and Victoria scurried her legs back up inside that little hovel, before turning around and facing him once more. She loved the chalky pink way his nose blushed, and that awkward, crooked smile of his, the one that popped up whenever he finally let himself be playful. He loved how her persimmon lips stood out against her face, and the way her head dropped timidly down to her shoulders when she giggled.

Soon the two were snuggling in each other's arms inside the heart of the sun, just waiting for the Jellicle Moon to rise again.

******

Vi/Caitlyn (Arcane)

The papery bandages around her forearms chafed against Vi's chin. Her elaborate clockwork tattoos peeked out through the rips on her sleeveless blue-hooded top. Pink-and-orange sunset streaked through the glass. She still wasn’t used to laying on a bed as big and comfy as Caitlyn’s.

"I haven't had a back rub in...probably forever," she mused, still a little apprehensive about this kind of intimate contact.

"It's really relaxing, I promise.”

Warm palms kneaded into the Trencher girl's scapula. Spindly fingers performed slow, smooth taffy-machine pulls on the muscles between her shoulders and neck. At first she resisted, but slowly surrendered to the touching and let herself sink deep into the soft mattress.

“Wow, your…you’re rock solid,” Caitlyn murmured, impressed. Under that jacket, Vi’s physique felt even buffer than it looked. And that intricate body art…Caitlyn was so busy admiring that she neglected to notice how her hands were moving faster, stroking in tandem with a nervous pulse.

Vi froze. Her fingers skittishly drummed against the bedsheet. Everything about Caitlyn's technique was wrong in precisely the right ways: the thumbs were rubbing a little too gently down her lats, the fingernails squeezing a smidge too firm between her ribs. It was clumsy, inelegant...ticklish. All it took was one especially-wrong nerve hit, and when she could no longer keep her mouth shut, Vi’s whole body shuddered.

“DAH, Huhuh-Heheh! Hey…watch it,” she laughed. "Careful back there."

“Sorry,” Cait replied, smirking. Her hands plunged back down.

Oh come on…not again. Vi felt like a grape in a wine press when twisting thumbs pushed down hard on her obliques. Her lumbars. Her hipbones. Every knot in her lower back. Her eyes widened, and all the air in her chest squeezed out from between her lips like a squished football deflating.

“Mmff…PFFFFTHnhn!” More wriggles. The bed whined from the kicking lower legs that thumped against it. Caitlyn was at a junction of befuddlement halfway between offense and joy, between pouting and grinning. Vi always had to make things difficult for her.

“I am trying to do something nice for you; could you just hold still?”

“GRRRR, stop tickling me!” Vi snapped.

No apology this time. Only a playful tsk, and then the massage resumed.

The fluttery rubbing sensation drilled down through Vi’s back until it scorched the inner wall of her stomach. Her frustrated, reddening facial features scrunched themselves tightly together, and she repeatedly slapped the nearby pillow with the ferocity of a grunge drummer. If her bared teeth had ground any harder together, her gums would’ve bled.

“NGK! Nooo-hoho; Hng-Hn! Gkkkk…Sss-sss-st-hop i-hih-hit…! Kkkkk!!” The redhead choked on desperate glass-shard sniggers that scraped against the roof of her mouth. She couldn’t stop her angry tough-girl giggling, and it drove her nuts.

"C-hut it ouuut, I'm gonna punch you!!!"

That one wasn't a threat; it was a genuine, heartfelt warning. Caitlyn couldn’t help but flash a buck-toothed grin...that was probably enough, for both their sakes. She drew back her hands and watched Vi's quivering shoulders slow down, listened to her breath steady itself.

"Ugh...What the hell, Cait?"

“Sorry, it wasn't on purpose. You’re just…I think it’s very…*ahem* …" Now it was the cop's turn to be flustered and rosy-cheeked. "...adorable. How frustrated you get when you’re feeling ticklish.”

She was expecting a tease, a playful slap, a snarky reprimand...some kind of retaliation...especially when she saw that smirk on Vi's mouth. But instead of payback, she got a pleasant surprise: Vi sat up, turned around, and shoved her lips into Caitlyn’s so hard and fast that the blue-haired Enforcer almost fell backward.

...Perhaps she'd have to try this again soon.

******

Kiki/Tombo (Kiki's Delivery Service)

“Hey, Kiki, I was wondering…can witches call their broomsticks to them like a magnet?” Tombo asked studiously, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He and Kiki were relaxing on Ursula’s front porch with glasses of fizzy lemonade, the sticky kind that makes your spit hurt when you drink it. It was a foggy spring morning and the crows were flapping in the damp emerald lawn.

“Hm…I don’t know; I’ve never tried,” she observed. Spying her broom across the clearing, rested against a tree stump, the young courier witch reached out her right hand, poked her tongue out, and concentrated. Unfortunately, Star Wars hadn't been invented yet, so it didn't occur to her to make an Empire Strikes Back reference.

At first her flying stick merely turned. It rocked in the crook of the tree’s roots, but nothing more. Maybe she wasn’t concentrating hard enough? But no sooner had the idea entered her mind than the crude vehicle hoisted itself horizontally, hovered a few feet off the grass, and charged. An invisible hand threw the broom at Kiki like a chucked javelin, and it was soaring straight for her face.

"Whoa! Look out!" Tombo immediately sprung into action, and his quick dive shoved Kiki out of the way just in time for him to take the blow. The broom's handle shot into one sleeve and out the other, dragging the junior aviator off the porch and tossing him headlong to the ground before it finally twitched its last.

“Oh my gosh, Tombo! Are you ok?!” Panicking, Kiki rushed to pull her friend up out of the grass. The broom handle was caught against his neck, parallel to the red-and-white stripes on his chest. He wobbled a bit when he stood...a few green stains on his knees...but was otherwise unscraped.

"Um, yeah, I'm fine. Just a little crooked here," he reassured her, swinging his arms around like a weathervane.

“Oh, thank goodness...Heh...you know, you kind of look like a scarecrow that way."

She was right...he did...but the boy’s gangly T-pose did nothing to deter Ursula’s avian buddies. In fact, right on cue, several of them flocked to his outstretched forearms. One even pecked at his ear.

“Heh-Heh! Guess I’m not a very good one!” The two shared a chuckle, before Kiki helpfully flapped her arm and shooed the birds away. "Hey, thanks. Can you help me get this out? My arms are kinda stuck."

But Kiki wasn't interested in helping right away...his pose had given her other ideas. Before Tombo knew it, Kiki's fingers were strumming up and down his sides with gleeful abandon. She kept pinching his belly and in between his ribs and affectionately watched him wiggle.

"Heh! Heheh-Haha! Hey, cut it ou-howt! Heh! You know I'm ticklish!" Tombo's smile was wide and sunny and dorky as he jumped around in place. Kiki, meanwhile, was positively giddy. She only tickled for a few more seconds...any longer and she would've gotten much too embarrassed...before carefully extricating the misbehaving broom from Tombo's sleeves and throwing it out into the field. Crisis averted.

"Heehee-Hee! I'm sorry, I couldn't help it!"

The boy brushed his sandy hair back and grinned broadly as the two sat again. "Well, you know I can't just let you do that!"

Kiki glanced down. Slowly...making sure to stretch out each moment of tension to its unbearable limits...Tombo was reaching his hands towards her, performing a spidery midair dance with his fingers.

The teen witch was already in a fit of helpless giggles and starting to blush. “Hmhm! Oho no, please don’t do it…” But instead of fleeing or curling up like an armadillo, as Tombo expected, Kiki bent over and quickly slipped her shoes off…first left, then right…and then lifted her arms skyward. “Heehee! Oh my gohosh, no, please…please don't...”

Suddenly, an old door hinge groaned. Bare feet creaked on the cold grey porch step. When Kiki & Tombo turned to look at the source of the noise, there stood Ursula, grinning and tapping her fingers on a steaming blue coffee mug.

"Hey, what are you two doing out here?"

*******A Few Seconds Later*******

"AHHH, Ha-HAAAAA Haha! *gasp* Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha!" Kiki screamed.

"Heheh...Heh! Hng…Heheh-Haha Haha...Hng! Heh! Stop!" Tombo's turn.

Ursula was pinning both of her young friends down to the floorboards, aggressively wiggling her nimble fingers across their bellies and watching them squirm & kick in sync together. “Uh-ohhh; look out! I'm the world's most evil tummy tickler!” She laughed, they laughed; Ursula was clearly relishing her position.

That is, until Kiki and Tombo managed to grab the artist’s ankles amid their struggle, tripped her up, and tickled her feet with her own paintbrushes until she was completely out of breath from laughing.

Kiki often wound up in tickle fights with her friends back home. But she couldn't remember one that was this much fun.

******

Robin/Maid Marian (Robin Hood)

Cops and robbers, such as they were, didn't exist in 12th-century Britannia. So "Robin Hood vs. Prince John" was the game of choice for the rabbit brood. Skippy was playing Robin Hood, of course, which meant Sis & Tagalong were his cohorts. Maid Marian volunteered to be Prince John, so Lady Kluck had to be the Sheriff. That left Robin himself to portray the benevolent King Richard, and Toby Turtle as Sir Hiss.

“A pox on the phony king of England!” Robin cheered. At his command, his noble servants were chasing the “Prince” all over the castle courtyard. They all ran in wild circles over and over, laughing merrily, until Skippy and Tagalong managed to hop up and grab Marian by the wrists. The bunny siblings dangled off of her like bracelets swaying in the breeze, and she bent at the waist as she tried to keep walking.

"We've gotchu now, Prince John!" crowed Skippy. "Give up?"

"Oh no, what-EVER shall I do?" Marian giggled in her most over-dramatic performance yet. "Sir Hiss, seize these scoundrels!"

Toby's head - SHLUNK - sucked back into his shell. He certainly wasn't going to help. Eager to catch their dastardly villain, Sis took matters into her own hands. Jumping in front of the pack, the bunny girl reached up and pawed at the struggling Maid Marian's belly, and Skippy joined the fun by grabbing her side. Immediately, the vixen broke into breathy peals of soft, melodious laughter.

"Ohoho no...Oh no-ho-ho-ho! *gasp* Noooo; anything but tickling, Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha!"

She knew full well that a plea like that would only goad the rambunctious tykes on, but if she were being honest, she was having far too much fun to care. This was as close as she'd get to playing with kids of her own, at least for a little while. Letting loose an enthusiastic yip, Marian fell into the dandelions, and the wrath of the rabbit swarm rained down upon her.

A sextet of bunny hands and paws were grabbing and squeezing and scratching at her tummy. Their little fingers pulled through creases in the silky dress she wore; their feet slid and stomped along her sides and made her wiggle. The kids' squeaky machine-gun giggles were very contagious, and the already-helpless fox couldn't stop laughing herself silly. She jostled and squirmed and had to push Tagalong off of her stomach.

“Ah-Ha Ha-Ha! *gasp* Help! K-Klucky-Hee…Ro...Robin, Heh-Heh-Help!”

"Bawk! Milady! Yer noicest drrrrress!" Klucky honked.

Robin himself was busy chuckling at Marian’s misfortune. Quite clever of them, he thought. They'd make Merry Men yet. His yellow bycocket cap shifted atop his vulpine ears - and suddenly, his thoughts turned to the feather that adorned it. He removed the hat, pulled the long scarlet plume from its sheathe, and twisted it between his fingers, amused. "Ah, there we are..." the outlaw remarked to no one in particular, as if he'd made some unexpected discovery.

Kneeling down, Robin grasped Marian's right ankle and gingerly lifted her leg up out of the weeds. With that roguish, wry smile and an absentminded hum, he stared right into her eyes and swooshed the feather back and forth across the bottom of her foot.

"Oh!! *gasp* Ha-Ha Ha-Ha Ha!! *gasp*hic* Haha-Ha! Oh dohon't, please, I...I d-hon't think I can stand any more, Ha-Ha Ha!” she cried. Pools of pink stained her cheeks. Her long eyelashes were dripping wet.

"Hmm, I think the prisoner has learned their lesson, don't you, kids?" Robin declared. Despite a few protests and "awwww"s, everyone backed off, leaving the exhausted Marian alone in the grass to catch her breath. "The Prince has been vanquished!!"

"Long live Robin Hood!" Skippy cried, holding his wooden sword triumphantly aloft, cheered on by his adulating sisters. While the kids danced in a circle singing "Prince John the Worst" off-key, Robin traipsed through the flowerbed over to his lady fair and tenderly offered her his palm.

"Oh, my hero; you've come to rescue me," Marian sighed, still all atwitter and breathless and fanning herself.

But instead of taking his hand, Marian pulled Robin down into the sunny spring field with her. Robin sent her his most disarmingly handsome smolder, and when she shied away, he slowly kissed her cheek. Their embrace was perfectly accompanied by the sounds of Sis and Tagalong giggling at them in the background...and of Skippy pretending to vomit.

"Blech!" he mumbled. "...Sissy stuff."

******

Neytiri/Jake (Avatar)

Neytiri sat up and slowly pulled her feet from beneath the powdery white sand. Infinitesimal shards of salt and earth and coral and glass sifted through the gaps between her toes with a quiet hiss. Pandoran beaches were very soft.

Jake emerged from the water and strode over to her resting spot. The sand was so smooth that he didn't even leave footprints; the pale flecks of dust simply clung to his body. "You think we should get back?" he asked her. "Mo'at's probably gonna be pissed."

"Mmmm..." Neytiri sighed contentedly and closed her eyes. "Not yet. I am too relaxed to move."

“Well here…lemme help you.” Not waiting for a rebuttal, Jake immediately stepped over her reclining legs, turned his back, and plopped down right on her ankles, straddling them. Neytiri looked bemused by his antics.

"What? What are you...AHH!!!! HN...Huheh-HEEE Heehee-Hee! NO! No PLEASE; HA-HA HA-HA!!"

The Omatikaya princess’ loud shriek scattered the nearby flock of tetrapteron into the salty air. Her grin threatened to split her cheeks open. Jake's fingertips were mercilessly prodding and caressing underneath her toes, and every single touch made her want to scream.

"Not that! G-get AWAY from MEE-HEE!!!" But her mate said nothing. Grinning, Jake bent all ten of his fingers...those damn Sky People with their extra digits...and scratched them up and down on her massive sky-blue soles.

“J-Jake!! My JAHAY-HA-HA-HA!!!” Neytiri tried to beg, but couldn't get the words out. Her voice leapfrogged through the entire octave scale, from bird chirps all the way down to breathy hyucks erupting from deep in her belly. She thrashed around frantically, her butt bouncing against the sand, and left a flurry of stinging open-palm slaps across her husband's back; even he could barely wrestle her down. Braids and beads tangled themselves like seaweed across her screaming face...how undignified it was, to constantly spit out strands of dreadlocked hair in between her bouts of tearful hysteria.

Jake didn't quit torturing her until she managed to lurch herself forward...the crunch burned her elongated stomach...and threw both of her hands at his armpits. He laughed and jumped aside at the unexpected tickle, before spinning around and scooping Neytiri into his arms. In a moment she was flat on her back once again, with Jake hovering over her and blotting out the sun, a toruk in his own right. The tremors in her chest slowed down, but her anger only boiled hotter. The smug, dopey jarhead smile of his...why didn't she hate it?

"I...*huff*...will...make you suffer for this...*wheeze*...Jake Sully," she hissed at her mate, flashing jagged fangs.

Rather than fear her, or even apologize, Jake simply tweaked her nose and pecked her on the forehead. What an asshole.

Maybe she could let him off the hook. Just this once.

******

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