#so. that's a dose of perspective huh?

[buckttommy]

Do you think there's a disconnect between older and newer members of the fandom? I'm a newer fan and most of my mutuals are also new fans and sometimes it feels like fans that have been around for a while don't really want to interact with new blogs.

You know what? I love this question. I'm glad you asked. Yeah, there is a disconnect and I can tell you why it exists (at least from my perspective).

So, before Eddie got shot, this fandom was relatively small. I joined this fandom in January 2021 and... okay, so, one of my litmus tests to determine the size of a fandom is seeing how easy it is to secure a canon or "elite" url. If it's a big fandom, say, DC or Marvel, you'd have to practically kill a man to save a steverogers or brucewayne url, or even a variation of that (i.e stcverogers / brvcewayne). But if it's a medium-sized fandom, for example, you might get away with being able to save an "off-brand" canon url (i.e. canonstucky / batfam). So when I joined up, the fact that I was able to save the canonbuddie url the same day I joined was, like, "whoa. Holy shit. Not a lot going on around here!" Especially since, by this time, Buddie had already been a "ship" for a year or so.

And you know what? It was perfect!

Honestly, in those pre-shooting days, this fandom was very chill. Sure, there was the Ryan/Chrysti n-word drama, and sure, I got absolutely slaughtered every time I so much as mentioned his name in a positive way, and sure, there was your casual in-fighting here and there among some people, but it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Everything was pretty alright.

But then Eddie got shot... and this fandom blew. the fuck. up.

Gay firefighter trended on twitter and suddenly, this fandom wasn't just a medium-sized hang out anymore. People joined in droves. People started paying attention to us, which was weird. And as with most things in these dark, long-forgotten corners of the internet, with the growth of the fandom inevitably came the Supernatural fans.

As you (probably? possibly?) know, Supernatural ended (Nov. 2020) only a couple months before Eddie got shot (May 2021). When Eddie got shot and Buddie shippers were so absolutely very convinced that this was The Moment and Season 5 was going to be their season, jilted ex-Destiel stans came sniffing around to see what we were up to. This would have been fine, but unfortunately, most of them were horribly unkind (calling us stupid and dumb and mocking us "to our faces" for believing Buddie would ever go canon) or just annoying as fuck (calling Buddie "D/estiel 2.0" and stuff like that).

It got... bad. Seriously. Me and some of the other "big" bloggers around here were constantly inundated with hatemail and mean comments attached to our posts to the point where I know a lot of us just started blocking D/estiel shippers on sight.

Most people in the fandom "closed ranks" after that, so to speak. If you weren't a trusted mutual, or a mutual-in-law, you basically had a 0% chance of punching your way through the fold. Which was ultimately to our detriment. In closing the ranks, more cliques formed, which of course, naturally, created a whole new set of problems to contend with, and all of these events eventually led us to where we are now.

It's not perfect, but it is what it is.

It should be noted that I'm not a fandom expert, and I don't claim to speak on everyone's behalf, but I remember this time, and my conversations with people during this time, with crystal-clear clarity and the D/estiel takeover seems to be the inciting event.

So. Yeah. It's not pleasant news, but I hope this helps?

#I really loved that you asked this question #I know I already said it but I can't imagine joining the fandom right now and I've never really thought about what it must be like #so. that's a dose of perspective huh? #Good luck! Have fun! Hope you find your tribe :) #jack answers mail

[murdrdocs]

this but from miguels perspective (gn!reader)

he thinks he's maintaining composure during the call. he manages to hold off the growl between his words, and his eyes are the usual amount of narrowed, so he thinks he's truly not being that obvious. but the envy sits heavily in his chest and the jealousy almost blinds him and of course, there's the devil on his shoulder to taunt him as soon as the call ends.

"were they just ...?" lyla's question doesn't need to be completed for miguel to know what she's asking.

"yea, lyla," annoyance is clear in his voice. to an outsider, maybe it's the usual annoyance that comes from miguel o'hara. but to the one who knows him best, it's a dose ten times bigger than usual.

"oh, someone's jealous." it's singsong, a direct taunt at his expense, something lyla's best at.

"i'm not jealous i'm upset that i now have to find another spider-person to fill in for spider-punk." lie. well, not completely a lie but mostly a lie.

lyla's tone says she obviously doesn't believe him. "uh-huh. sure." but then she's gone, and miguel's left to click on his watch and pull up the audio recording of hobie's call. all calls are recorded for ... archives and such, so it's not that weird.

miguel just needs to let out some frustration before he can focus again. he knows lyla will handle getting someone for the mission, he just needs 10 minutes on his own, with your moans lowly playing in the lab, and his fist wrapped around his cock.

he spits in his hand, the quarter of his suit between his navel and his knees disappears, and he plays the bit of audio that's clearest with your moans. when hobie deliberately paused to "think" about when he was next free, leaving miguel's ears to warm as his overactive imagination conjured up images of you, under the spider-person who upset him most.

his hand turns sloppy as he thinks about how hobie doesn't deserve you. he's too insufferable, too immature, and from the one accidental meeting miguel had with you, he could tell you were the opposite. you were sweet, pretty, the softest features and the most comforting eyes as you offered tea to the spiderman who'd jumped out of a portal and into your home.

miguel remembers scowling at the mix of items that were yours and hobie around the place, but his features leveled out when he saw you, wearing a long shirt that stopped mid thigh, a little bit of toothpaste crust at the corner of your mouth, and a bright smile as you tentatively approached hobie and miguel.

he felt disgusting in the moment, thinking about what you had under that shirt, if you even had anything under the shirt. you were young, clearly hobie's age, definitely too young for miguel, but so much nicer than most young adults, a simple fact that drew him to you even more.

he couldn't help but think about if you and hobie had just had sex while he accidentally stumbled over his words, having to take a pause all together as hobie shamelessly pulled your back to his front and rested his chin on your shoulder.

now, images of how embarrassed you'd looked then flashes into miguel's mind. is that what you looked like while your boyfriend fucked you on call to his boss? maybe your face was scrunched a little more with pleasure. maybe there were tears running down your cheeks, a show of humiliation and satisfaction.

fuck, miguel really wanted to make you cry. he wanted to see those pretty eyes well up with tears while he bounced you on his cock. not on hobie's. miguel wanted to wipe the salt water away, kiss them away, and continue to make you feel good.

he distantly realizes that he's groaning now, grunts thrown in there as his hips chase his own hand. it's messy, a little shameful, but the thoughts are coming into his head quicker than he can process.

pictures of you bouncing yourself on his cock, head thrown back. pictures of you begging to cum because you know that miguel controls when and if you do. pictures of you playing with yourself, putting on a show for him, moans high pitched and vulnerable like they are now as you beg for help.

and just as he's about to come, hobie speaks, and miguel sees a picture of the two of you, hobie being the one to get you off, eyes locked with miguel with that usual taunting look in them. but for once, it doesn't upset miguel. at least not when warm spurts of his own cum is spurting out of his dick and onto his previously clean skin.

#miguels into cucking #is that what its called? #miguel o'hara x reader #hobie brown x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x gn!reader #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman 2099 smut #spiderman 2099 x you

[nathandrakeisabottom]

Headcannons about them with an anxious SO? Love your stuff x

Thank you, friend! Now, in full canonical honesty, I don’t believe that either Nathan or Sam would be particularly good at dealing with their deeper anxiety, let alone someone else’s, let alone someone else’s who they loved dearly and would only be afraid to make it worse (that many crumbling bridges and a guy’s gotta if consider his only superpower is the ability to destroy everything he touches) for most of their young lives. 

However, I do believe that post-UC4 (perhaps a little earlier for Nathan), and a good dose of necessary therapy (paid for in pirate coins, of course)--- they’d be more than willing to finally take on the challenge. 

For themselves, and for the person they love more than anything.

Drakes with an Anxious S/O Headcanons

Nathan:

In his younger days, the prince of the awkward smile and half-hearted clap on the back. A pulley doll whose only catchphrases were “Man, that’s hard”, “Yeah. Yeesh.”, and “Soooo, I guess this would be a bad time for a joke, huh?”. Scurries to the bathroom as soon as they’re not in tears anymore, and stays there for as long as it takes to stop hearing the residual sobs.

However, his late 30s and 40s bring him a much healthier perspective (and therapy— Jesus, finally) and being the smarty pants he is, he passes on no opportunity to put his new skills and knowledge to use.

That playfulness and desire to find the lightness in even the hardest situations never leaves him at any age, though.

A panic attack? “‘Is something… wrong with you’? You realize you’re talking to the guy who accidentally destroys ancient temples for a living, as an archaeologist? And I still consider myself a not so bad guy. So in my eyes, you’re basically a lesser known Mesopotamian god.”

Got a bad grade? “A D in Psychometrics? I don’t know, sounds like they don’t know anything about math if they’re using a letter to grade you. Maybe they should go get their teaching certificates checked. Hey, how ‘bout I just draw you a PhD myself? You know I have an eye for art.” 

Dealing with shitty parents? Landlord? Roommates? Exes who won’t leave you the fuck alone? “What? That buffoon? Guy who can’t even spell their own name right? That bastard isn’t worth a thought of a thought of a thought in your head. Pretty sure they haven’t had a thought in their own head since 1996.”

As soon as his first wide-toothed smile is won, he’s leaning into his partner with a secretive smirk: “Ya wanna get the fuck out of here?” 

Because distractions always helped him before. 

Will act especially gentlemanly, and theatrically play it up, while taking their partner for a frozen yogurt, antique shop, Target trip, public park, laser tag (yes, really) decompress. Bows when he opens the car door for them. Pays for everything. Calls them ‘your majesty’ for the entirety of the excursion.

All he wants is to get them to smile. And he’s not stopping until he sees it. 

When the night creeps in and his S/O starts to lose steam, Nathan’s own worry grows more obvious, though he tries his best to keep it to himself. 

Watches them with wide eyes. Gives them space, but still asks every few minutes if they need a cup of water. No? Tea? Arnold Palmer? Popsicle? Massage? Hot Pocket? Sexy pillow fight? However many it takes to make his partner laugh again. But he fully means every offer he gives.

Says nothing as he helps them undress and into their PJs. Touches are tender and intimate, gently rubs their shoulders and neck. Never too hard, never too direct. Plays the friendly ghost and lets their partner take the lead, but never, ever just sits around to watch.

Makes them a beverage of some sort, even if they say no. Hot lemonade with honey is his personal homecure. Says yellow is a happy color, so it must be good for you.

And right before they turn the lights out, Nate timidly offers— with a shy, trying chuckle— if they want him to read them a bedtime story. 

Somehow shocked every time they say yes. Mumbles something self-derogatory about himself (“Ya know, not the best actor, but—” “Personally I think I have the voice of a dying goose, but—”) before sitting on the nearest surface and cracking open a book.

If he’s still feeling a little awkward, will uneasily ask if they wanna hear what he’s been reading lately, and will do so if asked— but really wants to read the pirate storybooks his mother read to him and Sam when they were kids.

It always made him feel better when the world felt too big, too scary, too cruel. 

So he wants to share it with the person he loves. 

He wants to share everything with the person he loves.

And without even asking, goes to the medicine cabinet and brings them a tablet of whatever they need when the anxiety gets especially bad, and says “I know, it’s scary. But we’ve been through scary before, right?” with a kiss on the cheek as they swallow it down with a sip of lemonade.

Lingers, eyes down, and vaguely nods to nobody as he stands and walks to the door.

“Want me… uh, want me to keep reading to you?” But he offers before he can even get past the door frame. 

“Do you want me to want you to keep reading to me?” 

And the last thing he wants to see is his love, alone. The idea of them crying beneath the covers because they were too afraid to burden him with it, too afraid to be seen. Everything he felt he had to do when he was 6 and his mother “passed”, age 9, 10, 11, 12 after a black eye, the words that his brain told him wrong: spoken aloud by the playground bullies he feared he’d never be stronger than. 

But he knew they were wrong. The bullies were wrong. The ones in his brain. The ones in theirs.

“Yes.” He replies without missing a beat. 

And he makes sure to hold their hand in his free one until the second they fall asleep… and a few hours after, just to be safe.

The next morning they fucking better expect breakfast in bed— and he maybe, just maybe, might even be willing to spring for McDonald’s, if that’s what they want. As long as they promise to eat actual fruit after. And hell, maybe even a vegetable or two when he makes dinner that night. Did you know that eating right and exercise are actually primary solutions to poor mental health—? That’s what Dr. Dorian said— No, potatoes don’t count as a vegetable— no, especially not if it’s fried— NO, FRENCH FRIES DON’T COUNT, BABY—

Sam:

Sam takes a bit longer to warm up to discussing anxiety than Nathan does, mostly due to struggling so deeply with it on his own. It’s not like prisoners (or Shoreline guards) made the most comforting companions. 

The better he could keep secrets, the less he could reveal, the safer he’d be.

So it makes sense that it’s both his greatest strength and weakness when it comes to emotionally turbulent times. 

In his younger, more avoidant years, he’d be the first to leave the room, leave the building, hell, sometimes even leave the city after a particularly heavy cry or confrontation with his then-partner. Only to come back the next morning and act like nothing ever happened. 

But now, he doesn’t run. After prison, after Rafe, after Madagascar, all he wants is to be allowed to stay. To be wanted to stay by someone who loves him. 

Is happiest to just sit with you in the silence. His biggest skill is his ability to weather the storm. And whether you need to scream bloody murder, or need to sit and decompress and just fucking feel, but can’t do it alone, Sam’s there. Listening. 

Once you’re done talking, he takes one last, long drag of his cigarette, stubs it out onto the pavement, and asks simply: “So do you want solutions… or something else, sweet’art?” 

You can see in his eyes— darting less than solid, certain against your own— that he really means it, in every way that he was too afraid to when he was younger.

The wonderful and terrifying thing about having anxiety while Sam is there is that it’s a vulnerable experience for the both of you. He’s learning, discovering, trying right along with you. And he may not be able to lift you up so easily, but he’ll be able to sink into the dark places with you, and not be afraid to see what’s down there. 

And maybe seeing someone he loves so deeply, sees as so beautiful, so smart, so kind, so wonderful, so absolutely perfect to him feel the same ways he does about himself… maybe it makes him think that he’s not as terrible as his brain tells him, either. 

Helps you take action by letting himself (finally) not be the smart one: “When ya… get like this, what do you usually do first, sweet’art? Paint me a pit’chure.” Gives you complete control, and smiles softly when you wipe your tears and the logical, the archaeological mind awakens. Mimics unraveling an ancient map when you begin to explain, and you inadvertently hiccup out a laugh. 

At times, it’ll feel like he’s trying to run again, but when he stands up and walks across the room— he always returns. This time with your favorite of his jackets, the denim one that smells like him even though he just cleaned it, and drapes it protectively over your shoulders. Clasps his palm at the back of your neck and rubs out the knot he always finds there. Smiles toothy and wide when your words are broken up by sighs of relief. Only to be filled once again with silence, gazes meeting sweet and safe. 

“Remember Indonesia?” He offers with a smirk, despite your furrowed brow.

“I guess? What about—?” 

“I read the runes’ instructions and ran us in circles all around Bali, only to reread the transcript and realized I got three letters completely wrong. J—V—A. Java. It was goddamn Java the entire time.” 

“Your point being?” 

He smiles and shrugs. Trying. Maybe he’s wrong, a foreigner in some ancient, uncertain land, but he tries.

“Sometimes our brains are just wrong.” He tries for you. “That’s all.”

You sniffle, and he leans in to press a prickly kiss to your cheek. His jacket is still warm from the dryer, wafting with the residual sting of cigarette, Old Spice Captain, cheap mouthwash, even cheaper aftershave, and something else completely unnameable. 

And maybe some others would think the scent appalling, but it’s the strangeness, the specificity, and yes, the stank— everything that makes Sam him— that makes you love it. Love him. The depth. The difference. 

The pain, and what he chose to do with it. 

Another kiss, this time down your neck. This time, the sigh of relief is his own.

What he chose to change it into. 

“So… any chance sex therapy might be a thing?” He asks grinningly.

“Why don’t we find out, ‘sweet’art’?”

#uncharted #uncharted 4: a thief's end #nathan drake #sam drake #nathan drake x reader #sam drake x reader #happy christmas yall!!! #and for those are yall who struggle today. you arent alone #feel free to jump into my inbox and geek out with me #sometimes family is just someone you share blood with #and that's allowed to be it #shea out

[maristelina]

Amane and Muu 2023 Birthday TL Translations

Sorry, I had to take a hiatus. Here's your dose of Milgram Translations!

Amane June 2023 Birthday

Amane: What… Kashiki Yuno. Don't bother sitting so close. Stay away.

Yuno: Sorry for interrupting you in your own little world, but Mahiru-san has finally fallen asleep. Keep me company with some idle chatter during our break.

By the way, Amane… Do you ever think it would have been better if you hadn't been born? I mean, I'm lucky enough to be getting by decently, but it seems like you're going through a lot of hardships. Do you ever have thoughts like that?

Amane: …I don't think so. Being born into this world is the first miracle and joy of being human. Even if hardships continue to follow afterward, it doesn't diminish the value of that initial miracle.

Yuno: Hmm, I see. …Well then, happy birthday. I mean, it's good that you were born safely.

Muu July 2023 Birthday

Futa: Hey, listen. Is he okay? He's been holed up and hasn't come out at all.

Muu: Haruka-kun? Hmm. Yeah, probably. Muu has been taking food to him, so he should be fine. Isn't Muu amazing?

Futa: Huh? Do you have to say it yourself, seriously… Oh, well. I guess I can understand a bit now. When you're feeling down, it's nice to have someone to rely on, someone who accepts you. We might not fully understand from our perspective, but if you're the "salvation" for Haruka, well, that's something.

Muu: Salvation…? I don't really get it. Futa-kun, you've started saying strange things. Did you hit your head or something? Oh, you did. Hahaha. Oh, by the way, it's Muu's birthday today.

#milgram #milgramtranslations #milgram translation #fuuta kajiyama #ミルグラムファンアート #kashiki yuno #momose amane #sakurai haruka #birthday

[the-second-visitor]

ask game! current nine fav albums: chose 9 then tag 9 people

tagged by @cheese-crusts

Oh boy, I don't usually listen to albums in their entirety so this is gonna fun. (9 albums really? Too many) In no particular order:

Judas by Lord of the Lost

It's an album made from different theological and philosophical interpretation of Judas as a character. Also it sounds great.

2. Blood & Glitter by Lord of the Lost

It's fun it sounds good what do you want from me. One Last Song almost made me cry, okay?

3. Dreams of the Deep by Aviators

Soulsborn inspired songs are my weakness. Also Can You Hear It was my "walk onto the podium" song at prom.

4. Dystopian Fiction by Aviators

There is a whole story about an immortal god hunter seeing the world fall apart over and over put into numerous songs from different perspectives that goes across four (I think) albums. This is the first one I've come across. It means a lot to me. And it sounds great.

5. Billy Talent III by Billy Talent

First English album I've ever listened to. Still sounds good. Every song.

6. Nightfall in Middle-Earth by Blind Guardian

It's power metal and all the songs are based on the Silmarillion of course I love that thing. No idea what are they doing with the instruments but it sounds amazing. The guitar solo from The Curse of Feanor is my current ringtone.

7. Unreal Unearth by Hozier

Only listened to eight songs so far. I gotta micro-dose on this. It makes me nostalgic for times I've never lived. Listening to it is like feeling the connection to my corner of the universe so intensely that it's physically painful.

8. Yungblud by Yungblud 

Some really creative names on here huh. The songs are fun. I have no other commentary.

9. Do pekla/do nebe by Kabát

Yes, I ran out. I told you 9 is too many! It's fun it has some cool lyrics. Probably my favourite album from this band. I don't usually listen to Czech music but when I do I always end up here. Feel free to laugh.

Your turn now! (if you wanna) @remykai, @ramblingmoon, @radiantidiot, @embarressment-erradicated, @voidmitsuki, @scarecloud69, @aroace-moron, @circeofjagd and @ one random person who sees this cause I ran out of people to annoy with this.

Thanks for tagging me! It was fun.

#tagging game #or however these are called

[vergess]

this is a personal af question that you do not need to answer publicly or at all esp. bc its for fanficish writing purposes but anyway so like how DO you, personally at least, deal with episodes of psychosis? because google tells me that the go to needs to be antipsychotics but 1. the context is a character who does not have regular access to them anyway 2. every one i have looked at has GOD AWFUL PERMANENT SIDE EFFECTS that seem to be almost guaranteed to happen? and my doctor oc would not subject that to anybody. the usual psychosis symptoms i write in my current rps are post-ictal and postpartum psychosis specifically because getting information about that from people who actually HAVE THE CONDITIONS is easy, and there seem to be other methods of dealing with them without antipsychotics (plus, you know, magic dnd for one, and pokemon psychic bs for the other) but finding information on how people with other forms of psychosis (in this case, schizotypal ftr) deal with it from their own perspective is almost impossible? it's ALL ableist bullshit from doctors which is why i am hesitant to trust the idea of "antipsychotics are the only way" :/ even reddit is not helpful here lol and i want to get this right? i know it's just tumblr rp/ao3 fanfic/discord rp that nobody important will read but me and my friends are trying to NOT be ableist shitbags on purpose you know?

Boy I really just don't answer tough asks over the winter months, huh.

I started keeping a closer eye on how media that I otherwise recommend depicts psychosis since getting this ask, and I'm disappointed to announce that over the last two months only two (2) pieces of media have been Normal About Psychosis.

So, the first thing to remember when writing a Psycho is: WE ARE WHOLE ASS ADULTS WITH ADULT BRAINS OKAY, we're not small children lost in a fantasy. We're not violent monsters out for blood. We are people who sometimes see, hear, etc things that aren't really there.

Writing a psychotic character competently isn't about curing them, or even about reducing their symptoms. It's about showing how they cope with those symptoms while carrying on with their daily lives.

I'm currently on the lowest possible dose of antipsychotic right now, and I will say two things about that. 1) the meds make reality checks and other coping skills MUCH more effective. 2) Even at a low dose, abstract and creative thinking are hindered. I don't feel hindered; but I have a 24 year long writing portfolio that says I sure as shit am hindered.

Whether a character will benefit from going on meds is going to be a balancing act. But since you aren't actually looking for meds advice, lets talk about those Other Coping Skills.

Broadly, I would split my skills into three categories: stuff for hallucinations, stuff for delusions, and stuff for dissociation.

So, first off, reality checking is my #1 go to for hallucinations.

You pick this skill up pretty quickly as a kid; everyone does. The difference being that where a non-psychotic person eventually gets to stop relying on others to tell them what is real, we get to keep on asking forever.

It's actually super exhausting to be in a crowded space because most of the nonverbal cues you come to rely on (eg, no one else flinched so that noise probably wasn't real) become INSTANTLY useless. Every noise, movement etc may of may not be real, and your only option is to either gauge other people's lack of reaction, or ask someone you trust for a reality check.

Sounds like an easy way for an abusive shit to control your entire life with no effort? It is!!

THAT'S WHY PSYCHOTIC PEOPLE ARE WAY MORE LIKELY TO BE ABUSED THAN THE GENERAL POPULATION.

Once you know if something is real or not, you can decide to ignore it. Like ignoring anything obtrusive, this is easier if you are in a good mood, physically comfortable, etc. An absurd amount of "coping with psychosis" is just constantly monitoring yourself and others to make sure you are reacting to the right things at the right volume.

Ignoring something that your brain insists is real and a threat is very tiring, so there's also a lot of sleeping.

Delusions are significantly harder to manage than hallucinations, IMO. Not just because, as a multiply marginalized person there are myriad ways that an ambiguous "them" is actually trying to ruin my life for real. Being on terror watchlists due to racism REALLY makes it IMPOSSIBLE to manage my paranoid delusions because some of the more insane shit is just real.

But there are other delusions that are easier to handle. Mostly, this comes down to self monitoring again. I can take an extra second to ask myself, "hang on, statistically speaking, how likely is it that this total stranger ACTUALLY wants to kill me?" The answer, of course, is "violent crime has been trending down for years, and everyone in this area thinks I'm white as long as I don't go outside during the summer, so I'm safe."

It's all about finding the information that helps keep you calm.

Because the absolute certainty that this is a murderer and you are walking into the slaughter will not go away. You just... take it on faith that this time will turn out as safely as the last 399 times.

It's just a shitload of observation, mimicry, and forcing myself to do things that feel dangerous by reminding myself that they aren't.

That shit sounds simple, but it's a CONSTANT fight; it never really gets easier, you just get used to it.

Which brings me back around to my meds again: I think I prefer it this way. My writing sucks, and I keep crying when I read it because it's wrong, it sounds like a field amputation. But god, I went to a cafe during the morning rush a few days ago, and the overload of noise and data only left me bedridden for ONE day. ONE!!! Not a WEEK!

Maybe losing my only art is okay in light of how much less bad things are.

Anyway, I can't remember the name of the 2014 short story about the One Person With Psychosis being wrongfully shunned by her colony because she doesn't feel affective empathy, in spite of her constant and perfectly reasoned moral code ensuring she is, if anything, the least dangerous person in town. I wish I could remember it!! It's a good example!!!

I haven't read it yet, but people I love and trust seem to generally agree that the psychosis in Harrow the Ninth is well written, too, so maybe check that out IDK

#answered asks #myfriendskickass

[intubatedangel]

Junk : Chapter 3

Thanks again for all the support, I’ve found a decent rhythm, hopefully it will last. Hope you all enjoy this chapter.

Story Index  

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

* * *

Jones cringed sightly hearing Lucy's assessment. He'd only had training in BLS, but he'd picked up enough to know this wasn't looking good. They hurried the gurney over to the ambulance, pausing for a moment to unlock the back doors.

"Jones, you good driving the wagon?" Stone said to him, as they lifted the gurney into the back of the ambulance, giving a discreet nod to the young man who had trailed them out. They both knew it wasn't strictly necessary from the perspective of the patient. With the LUCAS automating compressions, just one of the medics could have easily handled anything else. However, a strung out and high boyfriend was a different matter. They would need to manage that one carefully. If things kicked off they would need a third pair of hands to keep it from going to hell real fast.

"Got it, clear the way for us?" He asked, taking the keys from Dave.

Stone nodded in reply. They shut the doors and parted ways. The young man was reaching for the back door, stammering something. Jones cut him, keeping a soothing tone.

"This way mate, better off sitting up front, ok."

He led the young man around to the front and helped him in before rushing around to the driver’s side. He'd driven one of these ambulances a couple of times before, so it took him only a moment to re-familiarise himself with the layout. The engine roared to life, shifting it into drive before flicking on the sirens. Ahead of him the patrol car lit up too, and moments later both vehicles were on the move.

Jones glanced at the young man beside him. He was turned in his seat, staring into the back, tears streaking down his face. He needed distracting.

"What's your name mate?" Jones asked, taking care to keep any hint of accusation or authority out of his voice.

"Kevin." He mumbled, then his expression flickered, realising he was talking to a cop. "I mean Onyx."

"Onyx huh?" Jones tried to keep the conversation chatty but had a bad feeling his efforts to distract Kevin would fall flat.

"She calls me that. Gave me that name." Kevin said, his voice thick. Grief and the slurs of a fading high were part of it. But Jones sensed the edge of something hard deep underneath it. He stopped talking, hoping the young man would continue the conversation, but he remained silent.

* * *

In the back of the ambulance Dave and Lucy did what they could. Lucy regularly squeezed breath into Krystal’s lungs, while Dave was sorting the IV bags. He pushed a dose of Narcan into one port, adding a second larger dose to the bag of saline to give a constant effect. He also gave her a round of epi and one of bicarb, before grabbing a bag of glucose and electrolyte solution, hooking it up the second IV. Addicts weren't known for having a healthy diet. He'd seen many who had forgone a week’s worth of meals just to get another fix.

With that done there was little more either of them could do. Dave pressed his stethoscope to her chest, double checking the airway, knowing it wasn't necessary. The tube was well placed, but her lung sounds were grim. He heard the tell-tale signs of deeply aspirated vomit. He glanced up, meeting Lucy's gaze. She gave a slight shake of the head. They both knew that even if Krystal survived the overdose, leaving the hospital would be close to a miracle. Neurologically intact was pretty much impossible at this point.

Dave grabbed his shears and made short work of Krystal’s remaining clothing, fully revealing her naked body. Her arms were lined with track marks, and there was even a scattering of needle spots down her legs. Those limbs were also gaunt, little more than skin, bone and sinew. In the bright lights of the ambulance her ribs were clearly visible.

"Epi's had 2 minutes, let's pause the LUCAS and do a pulse check." Dave said, reaching up and twisting the dial of the LUCAS. The hissing clicks stopped, the plunger resting between Krystal’s pale breasts. The monitor continued its squeal, the line sliding across the screen without even the vaguest squiggle. Dave touched his fingers to her wrist and femoral, feeling nothing but her cooling flesh. He looked at Lucy, whose fingers were pressing into Krystal's carotid. She shook her head. Dave resumed the thumper, watching it cave Krystal's chest in over and over again, pumping her unmoving heart.

* * *

Anna pulled off her bloody gloves and the plastic apron, dumping them in the biohazard bin. She ran a hand through her hair, leaning against the wall as she watched the surgical transfer team roll the gurney out. It had been touch and go for a few minutes, a nasty nick to the man's femoral artery had required her to press her finger right into the wound from the open fracture on his thigh while Carl got it clamped off. After that they'd managed to get his blood volume back up and things were looking positive.

It had certainly re-energised her. Carl finished up his hand over with the surgical consultant, who trailed after her own team, then walked over to her. He leaned against the wall beside her.

"Good work there." He told her,

"Not so bad yourself." She replied, giving him a grin. "I missed you earlier. The walk in was terribly lonely."

He reached out, taking her hand but keeping it subtle. "Sorry about that. I tried to get an earlier appointment, but they didn't have any openings." He let out a breath. "All sorted now at least, shouldn't need to visit the accountants for another year."

"Why did you even need to go so urgently?" Anna asked, curious but not pushing.

"Someone was distracting me." He said, with a severe look that he couldn't hold for long before grinning. "I honestly forgot. My Pop's left me various stocks in a trust. They aren't worth big money, but they need managed, so I have to go in once a year to arrange things."

Anna nodded as if she knew what he was talking about. She understood the concept but had never been in that position. Her family wasn't dirt poor, but they'd never had spare cash for gambling on the markets. The only accountant she'd encountered was the one who organised the taxes for her self-employed father. And that involved a few beers and a football match on the TV. It was a nice memory, the simplicity and community of village life, tinged with sadness. The accountant’s daughter had disappeared a couple of years ago. Ran off and cut all contact.

Anna shook her head slightly, pulling herself back to the present. She gave Carl's hand a squeeze, letting out a little sigh. "I suppose we'd best get back to work." She said with a little groan. "More boring dressings."

Carl glanced up at the clock. It was 3:15. "Less than 3 hours left at least." He replied, pushing himself off the wall. "Come on then."

They both left the trauma room, heading back towards the central hub. They were halfway there when they saw Trish hurrying towards them. "We got another Red Call, OD, 2 minutes away. It sounds pretty bad."

* * *

2 minutes later Anna, Carl and the rest of their team were standing just inside the doors to the ambulance bay, keeping warm. They saw the lights of the ambulance approaching swiftly and got ready to spring into action. The ambulance swung around and pulled up, the team running out to pull open the doors. Anna was ready to jump in and take over compressions, but as soon as she saw the big green shell of the LUCAS she slid out of the way, letting the others in the pull the gurney out.

"What have we got Dave?" Carl asked the paramedic as he stepped down beside the gurney.

"Female, Jane Doe, going by Krystal, mid 20's, suspected opiate OD. Suffered a respiratory arrest approximately 22 minutes ago. Oxygenation wasn't restored until 12 minutes ago, by which time she was already asystolic. Significant amount of aspirated vomit. We've given multiple doses of Narcan and set up a titration, with no response. She hasn’t had a rhythm since we arrived."

As the team moved past Anna followed close beside Lucy, allowing her to get a decent look at Krystal. She had been stripped naked on the gurney, her sheared clothing still pinned beneath her. Her flesh was pale and ashen, a pattern of bruising underneath the heel of the LUCAS. In the slight gap of the ET tube holder, she could see Krystal's lips, a cyanotic pale blue. Above her lips was her nose, with the subtle signs of being broken in youth.

Anna frowned, turning her head to try and get a better look at Krystal's face. She looked familiar, and with that broken nose... No way. Anna thought. The accountant's daughter. She'd taken a hockey stick to the face at school. Anna remembered it distinctly because she'd been refereeing for the younger year group. The shock had stunned her, stopping her in her tracks.

"You ok?" A voice said behind her. It was a police officer. She recognised him too. Jones.

"Er... yeah. Yeah. Have you checked in with missing persons?" Anna asked him.

"Yes, haven't anything back yet though."

"Ok." Anna took a steadying breath. "See if they can pull up the information for Megan Kennedy."

Jones's eyebrows raised. "You know her?"

"Maybe." Anna shrugged. "I haven't seen her in 7 years, but she has the exact same broken nose."  

"I'll get right on it." Jones told her, grabbing his radio, chattering away.

Anna meanwhile got back in the game, heading for the trauma room. She hadn't noticed the young man pass her, but he was pushing through the doors. Anna raced to catch up.

* * *

Anna caught up to him a few steps into the trauma room. She slipped around and held up her hands to stall him. Behind her the team had transferred Krystal/Megan onto the trauma bed, removing the shredded clothing and casting it into a pile in the corner. Carl was giving orders, asking for more drugs to go in and a blood sample to be drawn out to test.

"You should really wait outside." Anna told him gently.

"No. No. She needs me." Kevin moaned.

"They're doing everything they can for her ok, you need let..." Anna was cut off.

"No they aren't!" Kevin hissed at her, the sudden switch in his demeanour putting her literally on the back foot. "Why haven't they zapped her! They're supposed to zap her!"

"It wouldn't help her right now. If they get to a point it will help, they'll do it, I promise."

He looked like he was going to keep arguing, but Jones had returned, stepping up close enough to make his presence known. He gave Anna a grim look, holding out his phone. A more recent picture of Megan was on the screen, from shortly before she ran away. Anna took the phone and advanced to the head of the bed. The lifeless young woman looked thinner, and grubbier. But Anna was almost certain it was her. She reached out and eased open one of her eyes. Anna could barely see the iris, a thin ring around a gaping pupil. But it matched the colour on the photo.

"Have you got a blood type yet?" She asked Trish, who had taken the sample and was over by a counter labelling it. She waved at the rapid testing strips, a few drops smeared on them, before sliding out of the way to take it to the lab for the drug screen. Anna quickly interpreted the result. Another match to the information on the missing person’s file.

She returned to Jones, handing back the phone with a sad nod. Then she turned Kevin.

"You really do need to wait outside." She repeated. "We're going to do everything we can to help Megan, but you need to give us space."

The young man turned his gaze toward her, glaring. "Her name is Krystal." He spoke slowly, his words hard as stone.

Jones stepped in the way, breaking the glare, waving Anna back towards the trauma bed. "Come on ... Onyx. Let them do their job." He said, placating but unyielding as he eased the young man backwards, out of the trauma room.

#Medical Drama #Resus Writing #CPR #Intubation #Anna Swift

[shiganshiina]

dinner party

prompt: 3. "I wish you never had trusted me."

summary: sasha and connie share a meal together in her hometown.

content: major character death mention; season 4 spoilers

w/c: 1.7k

a/n: trying to write from perspectives that are a little bit outside of my comfort zone, this one’s still relatively safe for me but i’m hoping to continue branching out from here. I think I got all my facts straight but I could be wrong

The sun blinded Connie just as his vision came back into focus.  The warmth on his arms confused him for a moment.  Wasn’t it just raining?  And what was he doing wearing this old dingy yellow shirt?  He could have sworn he was just wearing his… what was it anyway?  His confusion was cut short as he heard a familiar voice call to him.

“Are you coming or what? C’mon, we’re almost there now!”

“Huh?  What are you talking about?”  Connie could not remember what he was doing for the life of him.  Were they on a mission?  If so, where was the captain?  Where was anybody else for that matter?

“You’re not wimping out on me now, are you?  My folks probably pulled out all the stops for supper, and I know the little ones are excited to spend the evening with two bona fide war heroes.  You can’t back out now, idiot!” Sasha’s tone was as warm and bright as the setting sun.  Whatever had just been worrying Connie when he dosed off obviously was no real threat; Sasha would have sensed it too otherwise.  Her instincts were always spot on like that.

“When have I ever wimped out of anything?”  Of course there was nothing to worry about.  Connie clutched his pack and hustled to catch up to Sasha who was just ahead of him on the path.  It wasn’t every day they were granted leave to visit family, and Sasha had been kind enough to invite Connie to Dauper to meet her family; he was not about to squander this opportunity.  “You just better hope your folks don’t end up liking me more than you anyway.”  Connie laughed as he finally caught up to his best friend.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if they tried to adopt you too,” Sasha should her affection with a playful elbow to Connie’s side.

“The more the merrier, right?” Connie returned the friendly gesture back.  He was beyond grateful to have a friend who just got him the way Sasha did.  Anticipation swelled in him as he thought about finally getting to meet the people who made Sasha into the person she was now.  “How far to your village now?”

“It’s just over this ridge.  If you quit dragging your feet, we can actually get there before the sun sets.”  Connie knew when she was challenging him.  Neither of them needed to say another word to know that it was now a race to see who could get over the ridge first.  Connie put his all into his sprint as he took off and marveled at how far he’d come.  Back before he’d first joined the cadets, he was one of the slowest kids in his hometown, now just a few short years later he was a full-fledged scout and a member of the revered Levi squad.  What would the kids from Ragako think if they could see him now?  If only…

Perhaps it was Connie’s daydreaming that had caused him to fall behind, but as his eyes fixated on the path ahead of him, he was shocked to see Sasha’s silhouette growing smaller as it passed by the few quaint houses that made up her hometown.  He followed behind her as she led him to the south side of the village to her family’s property.  Connie grinned to himself as he saw a few kids tending to the horses in the stable.  It wasn’t much different from the town he grew up in.  Perhaps that was why he got along so well with Sasha.  His gaze continued up the path to see two adults standing in the doorway of the main house, waving to them eagerly as the two friends neared the entryway.

“You must be Connie.  We’ve heard so much about you, it’s good to finally put a face to a name, my boy,” The tall older gentleman extended his hand out as Connie finally reached the doorway.

“Mr. and Mrs. Braus, it’s great to finally meet you too.  Sasha’s told me loads about you guys over the years,” Connie’s hand met Sasha’s father’s and gripped it firmly.

“Only the good bits, I hope,” Mr. Braus joked as he welcomed the two young soldiers inside. As Connie stepped in the smell of slow-cooked meat filled his nostrils.  The survey corps had its perks, but quality dinners certainly were not one of them.  He deserved a delicious meal with his best friend after the last couple of months they had had.  

“Y’all got here just in time, your father just finished up with the deer, and I was just fixin’ to plate the potatoes and carrots,” Sasha’s mother grinned as she turned towards the kitchen to serve her guests.  Connie turned his head to whisper to his friend, only to find her swiping potatoes off the plates her mother had just finished setting.  

“Slow down now, girl, you know there’s enough to go around,” Sasha’s father softly smiled as he brought in a heaping plate of slow-cooked deer meat.  “Don’t they feed you kids in the survey corps?” “Nothing as good as a homecooked meal,” Sasha’s mouth was so full her words were hardly understandable.  Connie chuckled to himself.  It didn’t matter if they were served a king’s feast every night back in the corps, Sasha would always stuff her face whenever food was in front of her.  Some of their friends found it unbecoming, but to Connie, that was just one of the things that made Sasha ‘Sasha’.  Connie’s stomach grumbled as one of the younger children showed him to his seat at the table.  As the Braus family took their seats and Connie looked around at the feast in front of him his mouth began to water.  Sasha was right, nothing could ever compare to a homecooked meal.

“So, Connie, are you gonna make a trip to see your folks too while y’all are on leave?  I can’t recall what village Sasha had told us you’re from...” Mrs. Braus started cheerily as the younger kids dove into their meals. Connie smiled halfheartedly.  The last thing he wanted to do was ruin a perfectly good dinner party with sad stories.

“I’ll probably get to go visit my mother, we’re from Ragako,” Sasha’s eyes met his apologetically.  Connie could hear her thinking “I’m sorry I didn’t think she’d bring that up” without her needing to say a word.  It was fine; Connie would always be proud to talk about his mother.

“Ragako…” Mrs. Braus started, forkful of potatoes in hand.  Connie watched as her eyes lit up with sudden realization.  “Give your mother my best wishes,” She muttered solemnly.

“I will, Mrs. Braus, I’m sure she’ll be very grateful.  I’m pretty sure she enjoys hearing me talk about the places I go and the people I meet.”  The mother’s kind intentions filled Connie with a warmth.  No doubt this is where Sasha got her kind-heartedness.  As he took his first bite of food, however, he realized Sasha definitely missed out on her parents’ cooking skills.  He always found It perplexing how a girl with such an affinity for food was so lousy at preparing it.  Not that it mattered to him, that was simply another one of Sasha’s little quirks that made her ‘her’.

“So, I hear they’re finally letting the Wall Maria refugees go back home,” Mr. Braus smiled as he sipped his ale.  “Mighty fine job you kids did there.  I couldn’t be prouder of either of you.”  Connie couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard an authority figure tell him they were proud of him, and the gesture almost brought a tear to his eye.

“It sure wasn’t easy.  I’d have been done for if it wasn’t for Connie.  He really took care of me after I took that major hit,” drool and meat poured from Sasha’s lips, almost diminishing the weight of her words.

“You have my thanks for watching over my daughter, Connie.  You’re a good kid,” Mr. Braus’s eyes softened as he raised his glass toward the young soldier.  Connie could see the man fighting back tears as he toasted.

“She’s like a sister to me, Mr. Braus.  I have her back no matter what.”

After the meal had been finished, the laughs had been shared, and Sasha slipped into a temporary meat-induced coma, Connie looked around at her quaint little family with a smile.  He missed dinners with his own family more than he would ever be able to put into words, but dinners with his new sister’s family might now be a close second, he thought to himself.

“Son,” Connie felt a firm hand on his shoulder.  He turned to find Sasha’s father gesturing towards the door.  “Mind if we have a word outside?”  Connie followed the man obediently but wondered what he could possibly want to talk about.  He hoped Mr. Braus hadn’t misread his relationship with Sasha, that would be one hell of an awkward conversation.  But what could else could this possibly be about?  His mother, maybe?  Connie’s mind wandered as they found their way to the front porch.  “I meant what I said back there about you looking out for Sasha.  I can’t even begin to thank you enough for that.”  Mr. Braus’s eyes once again watered before Connie.  “I’m sure you can imagine I was pretty damn worried when she told me she was joining the scouts.  She’s my little girl, after all.  I knew I raised her well and I knew she more than capable, but a father can’t help but worry.  I just hoped she’d make a friend who would have her back through thick and thin.  And, well, I’d say she definitely found that in you, Connie.” A tear rolled down her father’s cheek.  “I just gotta ask you one thing, son,”

“Of course, Mr. Braus, what is it?” “Just promise me you’ll keep bringing my daughter home to me for family dinners.”  The crisp night felt so comforting against Connie’s skin.  For a moment the hum of the cicadas filled the air with a sweet tone.

“I promise.”

Connie’s eyes jolted open.  The song of cicadas had been replaced by crackling thunder.  Instead of warm summer air, Connie was now being pelted with heavy rain.  He looked around frantically.  He had fallen asleep against the fresh grave marker.  That dinner was years ago.  Sasha was… Sasha was gone.  Connie clutched his knees as he sobbed for probably the hundredth time since the raid on Liberio.

“I’m sorry, Sasha,” Connie was choking on his tears.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Braus,” he struggled to catch his breath.  “I wish you had never trusted me with your daughter.”

#shiganshiina writes #attack on titan #aot #aot angst #angst #connie springer #sasha braus #sasha blouse #shingeki no kyojin #shingeki no kyoujin imagine #shingeki no kyoujin fanfiction #attack on titan fic #attack on titan fanfiction #connie #connie springer fic #sasha #aot fanfiction #aot imagines #aot prompts #aot season 4

[anlian-aishang]

Dad-Levi "Dadvi" Headcanons - Part 3 - (Part 1 // Part 2)

Word count: 500 Tags: sfw, fluffy fluff fluff, dadvi, levi x reader, she/her pronouns reader

On his days off, he takes the baby out with him to do errands so that you can get the peace and quiet you deserve, in other words, a four-hour nap.

Prefers to use the baby carrier over the stroller, strapping the child securely to his front. He feels it’s safer, more peace of mind, that way - having a better look-out for them. And he keeps it a secret - but the baby seems to enjoy that perspective more. As they explore the great big world, their smiles and laughs make their father do the same.

At the grocery store, he does a few laps in the produce section, walking slowly, waiting for any particular reactions from his little one. If they point and grab at a cantaloupe, that will surely go in the basket. If they look at a carrot and then look away, he’ll buy broccoli that week - or at least sneak the carrot in when they’re not looking.

// // //

Levi always changes their diaper, feeds them, and makes sure they’re well-rested before they head out, but he understands that emergencies happen. It’s why he’s packed the diaper bag, bottle and purees, and the stuffed animal they love.

Having a child, this is what he signed up for, but that won’t prevent the lighthearted you’re a lil brat, aren’t you? as he coddles them - just like your mother, huh?

He will visit the backseat of the car - refusing the public bathrooms for both his and his child’s sakes - for some changing privacy, sit on a bench while he feeds them their bottle, and rub their back, pat their head, and maybe sing a little till they dose off - then finishing the rest of the errands while they sleep, going a little faster now.

And of course, any sideways glances - at a father being a father - will be disintegrated when they meet his steel-grey stare. Any others coming on too strong, not that you would blame them, he makes subtle moves to have his left hand more visible - a shiny gold ring on display. Perhaps even the remark - their mother’s on break.

// // //

The checklist includes more than just groceries, stocking up on all the essentials: diapers, soap, powder, clothes, and maybe - just maybe - a new toy as well. He has no problem with the hours it takes and the money it costs, viewing it as the least he could do. For anything he doesn’t take care of will fall on you who already does so much.

But never would he put himself on a pedestal for it. He took on these tasks happily when he married you, when he asked for a family with you, when he got up to get you all those late-night pregnancy cravings up through holding your hand in the delivery room. It’s the greatest responsibility he’s ever had in terms of magnitude, happiness, and all.

Still, it’s tiring.

By the time he gets home, his body is aching from carrying that little bundle, pushing the cart all day long, driving to town and back. Still, he comes home the right way: first setting the sleeping baby in their crib, then tucking them in, unloading the car, putting away the purchases, and finally crawling into bed by your side.

“Mmm… Levi?” Your hand feels around for him, sometimes knocking his face, better times not, “Where’ve you been? What’ve you been up to?”

He has been out and about for the better part of the day, hopping from store to store, all with a hungry and tired child attached to him, but when compared to all he thanks you for, it’s nothing - and that’s what he tells you.

It’s Sunday afternoon and the whole house is sound asleep.

// masterlist //

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi #levi ackerman #anlian writes #my writing #alias's #dadvi #fluff #headcanon #2021

[quirklessidiot]

Title: nocuous [the intruder]  Pairing: Jujutsu sorcerer!gn!Y/N x Sukuna [heian era] Genre: tragic dose of angst [almost!lovers au]

Synopsis: “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I knew how this was going to end but I’m still terribly hurt by it.”

Warnings: smoking, teeny tiny spoilers, and brief mentions of sacrifice brides-ish?  Notes: well our professors were nice enough to give us a free week and my mind has been poking around with jjk angst so i ended up with this. Anyways, hope yall enjoy it like you did with pretty eyes! in case ya havent noticed, im just self-indulging myself with angst fics and idk why

lil dictionary: kiseru pipe- cigars used by old japan in the meiji era. haori- it’s sort of like a jacket used but it’s not thick!

masterlist || taglist

“...You have quite the terrible habit of breaking into my home.” 

The only source of light and sound in your large room is the dimly-lit lamp and  the crickets from outside.  The presence of the man who invaded your territory was too strong to ignore that you wondered if your neighbors felt such thing, “...and you’ve grown old.” he retaliated. If this were any shaman or sorcerer, they’d be scared out of their wits, probably even pissing their pants as they ran away from this curse.

But to you, he was simply just Sukuna.

Despite the countless attempts of chasing him down and battling him under the darkness of night, he still manages to sneak into your home and sit right across you just like when you were the ripen age of sixteen, filled with big dreams while he was the boy who was deemed as the strongest, the protector, the hope.

You chuckled, “Are you about to kill poor and defenseless old me?”

Unlike Sukuna who maintained his rather ‘youthful’ appearance, you’ve grown old and the wrinkles on your face are not hard to miss anymore. You were human after all and aging was only something you could welcome with open arms. 

He scoffed, looking away from your appearance. The king of curses did visited you random times throughout his years after he defected from your side and he wonders why you’ve never ratted him out nor why you’ve never had a knife ready up his heart, “I feel like we’ve come to an agreement that we wouldn’t be at each other’s throat here.” he grumbled, watching you light up the kiseru pipe.

“Hm.” you hummed, “That’s right, I don’t really like cleaning and it is quite expensive to have everything fixed up.”

“You’re rich.” he deadpanned.

“And I plan to stay rich by not having my countless properties destroyed.” You huff out a smoke, “You getting lonely up that shrine of yours? Was that why you’re visiting me now? Miss having my knife up your neck?”

“Why would I be lonely?” He asked, laying his head on one of his hands, “The villagers who worship me seem to send women and men my way for company.”

You raised a brow at his statement and Sukuna seems to notice the flicker of disappointment on your face. He senses an odd feeling blossom on his chest at that moment, something familiar that makes him want to take back what he had just said because despite the villagers sending him those things they considered beautiful, he’s never touched them yet he decides against telling you because what good would it actually be? 

“I hate you.” You confessed out of the blue.

“You aren’t the first one.” 

“Oh, trust me. I hated you before you became a curse so I think I’m the first one.” 

It’s silent once again.

“I’m guessing that I’ll take that as my cue to leave?”

This was how these secret late night meetings would end usually; it was fleeting, quick, and bitter. You wondered why he even bothered to keep visiting you, it’s not like you don’t see each other when you’re hunting him down, “Why do you even bother to visit?” you ask, ignoring his previous question.

“Why not?”

“You’re impossible.”

“What’s wrong with wanting to see a friend?” 

His tone was condensing as if he was mocking you for that so-called friendship that you two had shared. 

This made you place one hand flat on the floor, making your haori come off loose on one shoulder, exposing a part of your skin as you take another huff of your pipe, “Friends, huh?” you were almost hurt by the way he put things into his perspective, looks like this bastard had become more of a sadist now that he was infamous with a title , “That’s an understatement to describe what we were.”

The heavy silence lingers in the air once again, Sukuna clicks his tongue, “You’re too emotional.” he stated, eyes narrowing in judgement, “I’m your enemy, Y/N. You’re suppose to kill me and I’m suppose to kill you.”

Hearing him call you by your first name is foreign to your ears every time, unlike the soft tones before. It now sounded hollow and empty.

“You make it sound like it’s easy.” You blink, containing yourself, “But then again, what did I even expect?”

Sukuna is     was human. 

He did feel things.

He wouldn’t deny that when he was a mere boy thirty years or so ago, he felt something strong for you but right now it was just void and darkness, every positive emotion all gone. 

He’s even surprised on his part that he hasn’t laid a finger on you during these secret meetings. Maybe he was just reminiscing? Unlike him, you were bound to death and it seemed as if he succumbed to that small flicker of emotion in his body. Was it regret? Sadness? He’d never really come to understand these types of things after he turned to a curse.

“I guess that’s my signal to never visit you again, then.” 

Yet before he even leaves, your small and melodic voice envelopes the room, “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” this time, when he turns to you, you're both facing each other eye to eye across the room. The distance between you was so near yet so far, just like the memory of the man that you loved when you were twenty and hoped to grow old with, “I knew how this was going to end but I’m still terribly hurt by it.”

The king doesn’t give you a reply that night, instead he keeps his word and never visits you again.

taglist [if crossed out i cant tag you]

@airybnb​ ;; @hcn421 ;; @shinhiromi

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna imagines #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagine

[youbloodymadgenius]

Happiness is Everything (Modern!Ivar x reader)

A/N: This wasn’t requested; I needed to give my boy some love, and a strong bond with Hvitserk. It’s nothing but a silly comfort fic.

@geekandbooknerd​ - Thank you for beta reading this for me 💖

@zuxiezendler​ - Thank you 😉🌸 (and you know why)

Let me know if you want to be tagged 😊

Summary: Ivar doesn't want any more set-ups. Hvitserk’s stubborn girlfriend disagrees.

Warnings: a tiny bit of angst due to Ivar’s temper and insecurities; an obvious lack of plot; lack of creativity; fluff+++.

Words: 2575

Stifling a hiss of pain, Ivar flops down on the couch, leaning his crutch against its armrest. 

 "Here." Hvitserk joins him, handing him a beer before gulping a long sip of his. "So, brother," Hvitserk's face is slightly crumpled as he looks at him, "There's a last-minute change." 

 With a tight-lipped expression on his face, Ivar frowns. He hates last-minute changes with a passion. "What are you talking about, Hvitserk?" He asks curtly while massaging his right thigh absently. 

 "Thora will be with us tonight." Hvitserk shrugs, his discomfort obvious. 

 "Okay." Ivar tilts his head, confused. Every Thursday night, he and his brother spend the night together. Usually at Hvitserk’s place, eating frozen pizzas – a lot of them, Hvitserk being Hvitserk. Most of the time, Thora, who enjoys spending time with her friends, leaves them alone. Sometimes she stays home though, and honestly, it's fine. The truth is, he likes Thora. She's smart and funny, and uncomplicated. Sure, he didn't warm to her right away. It took time. But now, it's okay. He probably won't say it out loud, but yeah, he likes her.

 "So…" Raising a brow, Ivar takes a sip of his beer, "It's no big deal." As Hvitserk keeps silent, Ivar scrutinizes him. His brother is clearly nervous and not at ease at all. Ivar slowly licks his lips. "What are you not telling me, brother?" He knows he's right when Hvitserk lowers his gaze.

 "Well…" Hvitserk clears his throat, "She won't be alone."

A wide-eyed look on his face, Ivar snarls, pursing his lips. "What does that mean, Hvitserk?" The icy cold tone of his voice matches his hard stare, his knuckles turning white as he clenches his hands into fists. 

 Hvitserk winces, "You know what it means, brother," before taking a seat in the armchair across from Ivar, the small coffee table between them suddenly highly appreciated. One can never be too careful when facing Ivar's anger. 

 "Are you fucking kidding me?" Clenching his jaw, Ivar bangs his fist on the table, and Hvitserk immediately leans forward, catching his brother's beer just before it falls down. 

 "I'm not, Ivar. Listen, I'm sorry but Tho–"

 Ivar cuts him off, running nervously his hands through his hair. "I can't believe it! Remember the fiasco with Thora's cousin? And then with her colleague? What was her name? Livia? Lisa? See, she didn’t even stay long enough for me to remember. Anyway, I thought I was pretty clear after that, wasn't I? Maybe you and your girlfriend should go and check your hearing, what do you think, hm, brother?" His voice dripping with sarcasm, Ivar gives Hvitserk dagger eyes, his pointer finger tapping the side of his head. "No more set-ups. That's what I said, right? Sounds pretty clear, huh? Do I need to tell it again, brother? Look at my mouth, I wouldn't want you to miss it this time,” He points to his lips then in a sarcastic manner, “No. More. Set-ups. No. More. Blind. Dates." Bottom lip quivering, Ivar, who's boiling mad, struggles to hold back his anger.

 "I know, brother…" Hvitserk swallows, rubbing his hand over his face, "but you know Thora means well, don't you? I briefly met Y/N once and honestly, she seemed nice enough. Plus, Thora's not really setting you up. We'll be together, the four of us, here, just eating pizza, it hardly counts as a date, don't you think?"

 Disgruntled, Ivar heaves an exasperated sigh, his nostrils flaring. "Stop playing dumb, Hvit, and don't tell me you've never heard of double dates!" He stares at his brother, his pupils dilated, shading his eyes darker blue. "Anyway, it doesn't matter." As he reaches for his crutch, a scowl on his face, Hvitserk stands up, his brow furrowed. "What are you doing?"

 "Isn't that obvious?" Ivar mocks him while adjusting his legs in front of him. "I'm leaving!" Shifting his butt forward, he laces his left arm through the metal loop of his crutch, places his right hand on the coffee table, and then slowly hauls himself to his feet, grunting and swearing under his breath. He has a false start, where it seems he's going to fall right back onto the couch, but Hvitserk catches him skilfully, gripping his upper right arm. As soon as he's sure his baby brother has found his balance, Hvitserk releases his arm and Ivar gives him a tight, thank-you smile. 

 Hvitserk barely nods, as if nothing happened. And gosh, Ivar may be mad at him about this stupid set-up-non-set-up thing, but right now he's feeling mostly grateful. His brother not making a big deal out of his struggles never fails to amaze him.

With any other of his brothers, it wouldn't have been the same. 

Bjorn would have looked at him as if he were an utter failure, and then maybe helped him – out of pity, Ivar is sure of that – but not without paternally patting him on the shoulder; or even worse, on the head. The thought makes him cringe and he shakes his head, chasing it away. Bjorn is no longer around anyway, busy traveling around the world with his fourth wife. Or maybe it's the fifth? Ivar lost count a long time ago. 

 Sigurd would have kicked his crutch out from under him while Ubbe would have forced him to sit down, hovering beside him for far too long, afraid he would slip or stumble, or break a bone. Between Ubbe and Sigurd, between plague and cholera, Ivar is honestly not sure which one is better. Or worse. After all, it's all a matter of perspective. 

 Fortunately, Hvitserk – his favourite brother, and it is no coincidence – never treats him differently; never belittles him; never mothers nor smothers him. With him, Ivar feels like he's normal.

 Gratefulness flooding his mind, a pang of guilt suddenly hits him. He knows that if he leaves, he will put his brother in a difficult position. Though his resolve remains unshaken, Ivar puts a hand on his brother's shoulder, and when he speaks again, it's in a softer voice. "Listen, brother, just tell them I cancelled because I wasn't feeling well, okay?"

 Technically speaking, it's not even a lie. Today has been what his beloved mother would have called a 'bad leg day'. The pain coursing through his lower limbs worse and the muscles stiffer than usual, his right leg barely moving due to its swollen joints, he had taken a double dose of painkillers earlier, regrettably with little to no effect.

 "Well, brother," Looking out of the window, Hvitserk grimaces, an uneasy grin on the corner of his lips, "I'm afraid it's too late." 

 As if on cue, the door busts open and a girly chuckle can be heard. Ivar clenches his jaw and tightens his grip on the handle of his crutch. As you and Thora take off your coats and shoes in the doorway, Hvitserk mutters, his mouth on his brother's ear, "Behave Ivar, please. For my sake." 

 Ivar snorts, exhaling deeply. "I'll try." He closes his eyes and, shaking his head, he mumbles, fighting a lump in his throat. "It's… It's not that easy. Fuck Hvitserk, you don't even know…I wish I wasn’t so angry all the time. I… I might have been happy." His voice, barely a whisper at this point, cracks at the end, and he hates himself for that.  

 Astounded, Hvitserk isn't even sure he heard right. There's no time left to ask Ivar to repeat himself though, so he somewhat haphazardly decides to comfort him, nevertheless. "You'll get there, brother." He eventually breathes, still stunned by his brother's unexpected admission.

  "We're coming!!" Unaware of the tension in the room, Thora shouts enthusiastically before crossing it in two long strides. All smiles, she joins the brothers, winking at her lover and squeezing his hand, and gives Ivar a peck on the cheek followed by a wholehearted hug. She then steps away, gesturing toward you as Hvitserk wraps his arm around her shoulders. "Ivar, this is Y/N."

 Reluctantly, Ivar looks in your direction and the moment he sets his eyes on you, his breath catches in his throat and he knows he's screwed. Already smitten. Gods, you're glowing and insanely beautiful. He barely hears Thora's next words. "And Y/N, this is Ivar, Hvitserk's little brother."

 A beaming smile on your face, you wave at him before taking two shy steps forward. "Hello, Ivar." Even your voice is wonderful, sweet, and silky, and he can't help but smile back at you, annoyed with himself for being so weak. 

 Even if he can see the sparkle in your eyes as you look at him, even if your smile is devastating, he knows better. 

 It won't last. It can't.

 For now, standing tall in his brother's living room, he's aware you surely find him attractive. With no false modesty, Ivar knows about his good looks, his huge blue eyes his greatest asset. Of course, you must have noticed the crutch, but the crutch per se is barely a turn-off. You can't see his titanium leg braces, which he stubbornly wears under his pants, even if they often bruise the thin and delicate skin of his calves. You can't see his crippling pain, his struggles. You can't see his distorted bones and his hideous legs. You can't see how disabled, how crippled he really is. But he knows that as soon as he takes a step, you'll get a small glimpse, and then the sparkle will leave your eyes, replaced at best by polite indifference, at worst by pity and disgust. 

 Yet, there's nowhere to hide from the inevitable. So, he decisively closes the gap between you and him, leaning heavily on his crutch, dragging his useless right leg behind him, and eventually standing right in front of you, he extends his hand. "Nice to meet you." His gaze never leaves your face, Ivar awaiting for you to avert your eyes, but you surprisingly don't. And as you reach out and offer him a firm handshake, your smile never falters, the sparkle still dancing in your eyes. 

 *** One year later ***

 You stir and turn toward him, your hand searching and finding his chest, and then lay your head on his shoulder. Groggy with sleep, you just mumble his name, eyes still closed, before letting out a content sigh and Ivar can't help but smile; you're so adorable.  

 Wrapping his arm around your waist, he draws you closer, running his fingers along your back and pressing his lips to your head. Rewarded by kisses in the crook of his neck, his free hand settles on your hip, your skin warm and smooth under his fingertips. "Hi," he greets you and buries his nose in your hair, deeply inhaling your scent.

 "Hi." You eventually mumble with a raspy voice, now peppering light kisses all over his broad torso. "What were you doing, my love?" Your eyes flutter open and, propping yourself up on your elbow, your other hand flat on his chest, you offer him a warm smile. There's so much love in your eyes, it takes his breath away. 

 "I was remembering." Ivar smiles fondly at you, grabbing your hand and bringing it to his mouth. "Do you know what day it is?" He asks, gently kissing your knuckles one after the other. 

 "How could I have forgotten?" You scoot even closer, your breast against his chest, your mouth barely an inch from his. "Today is the anniversary of the day we met, my love. That's what you were thinking about?"

 Ivar nods before laying you down on the bed tenderly. He then sits up, running his hands through his hair. "I remember as though it were yesterday, you know? I still can't believe you didn't run away." Sitting behind him, you wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his shoulders, trapping him in your embrace, in your love. "You stayed…", his voice trembles as he gestures to his legs, hidden under the sheets, "… you stayed in spite of… of them…" He swallows loudly and your heart aches.

 Resting your head on his left shoulder, you shake your head. "No, my love, I didn’t stay in spite of your legs, but because of them." 

 Ivar is looking downward but as soon as the words escape your lips, he snaps his head to the side, a frown flitting across his face, and gives you a confused and slightly upset look. "What do you… What do you mean?" He stammers, suddenly tense.

 Shifting in the bed, you carefully straddle him, tilting his chin with a curled finger and forcing him to meet your gaze. "Don't get me wrong, Ivar. I'm not especially attracted to your legs. It's not some kind of weird fetish. I stayed because of what is in here." You put your finger on his forehead, and then over his heart. "And here. But your legs made you who you are. And you're different. A good kind of different. You don't think like other men. That's what I love the most about you. You're unpredictable; you always surprise me. You wouldn't have been who you are without your legs." A gentle hand sliding under the sheets, your fingers graze his scarred skin. "With two working legs, who knows what you would have been. You probably would have been a presumptuous womanizer like Bjorn. Or you might have been as boring as Ubbe; as careless as Hvitserk; as annoying as Sigurd. You are who you are, infuriating, smart, and stubborn, and, I must say, breathtakingly handsome, and I love you exactly the way you are." 

 Ivar just looks at you for a long time, a small smile playing on his lips. Raising his right hand, he cups your face. "Never stop telling me you love me, Y/N. Please..." You never saw him so willingly vulnerable before, and it breaks your heart – you never want him to doubt himself – as much as it fills you with joy – he trusts you enough to share his insecurities with you. 

 You answer him without missing a beat. "I won't. I love you more than my own life. I love you bigger than the sky and its stars, I love you to the moon and back. I love you like I never thought I could. Loving you is a blessing, a precious gift, the meaning of my life. I love you and only you, Ivar Lothbrok."

 Blinking a few times, Ivar heaves a shuddering breath. Tears come to his bright blue eyes and the expression on his face is unreadable; fragile and strong all at once. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but then closes it. Staring into space, he seems lost.

 Stroking his cheek, you bring him back to the here and now, back to you, kissing his earlobe, his jaw, his neck, before returning briefly to his mouth. "What is it, Ivar?"

 Your lover shrugs, "Nothing, really," and pulls you closer, his hands on your back, his breath on your face, his manly scent enticing you. "Or more accurately…", he whispers in your ear, "… Nothing, yet everything." 

 Not understanding what he's getting at, you keep quiet, just staring at him, confusion obvious in your eyes. He then offers you a mind-blowing smile, and your heart nearly jumps out through your mouth at his next words. 

 "I may be happy. Actually, I think I am."

 🛡⚔️🛡

@honestsycrets​ @lisinfleur​ @waiting4inspiration​ @saldelys​ @gearhead66​ @inforapound​ @readsalot73​ @milkkygirls​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @shannygoatgruff​ @zuxiezendler​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @hecohansen31​ @lonewolf471​ @ivarthebloodyking​ @fuckindiva​ @tgrrose​ @didiintheblog​ @peachyboneless​ @funmadnessandbadassvikings​ @ethereallysimple​ @destynelseclipsa​ @coco2315​ @mlchael-guerin​ @pieces-by-me​

#ivar #ivars heathen army #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #modern ivar #modern ivar x reader #modern!ivar #modern!ivar x reader #modern-ivar #ivar imagine #ivar fanfic #ivar fic #ivar fanfiction #ivar vikings #vikings ivar #vikings fic #vikings #comfort fic

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fire and Light (ao3) - on tumblr: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

- Chapter 8 -

A small group of sects unexpectedly announced that they wanted Wen Ruohan to adjudicate a boundary line dispute – some were affiliated with the Jiang sect, others with the Jin, and they wanted a neutral party. Wen Ruohan was pleased, even smug, that they had chosen him rather than the Lan sect, which with its righteous reputation was more typically called upon to mediate for the other sects.

“Maybe none of them have a good argument,” Nie Huaisang mused. “They’re all awful, and they want someone more self-absorbed than either side to broker something out.”

“Not everyone is awful, Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue said, tucking the blankets around him. “Most people are good. Besides, there are some pretty renowned sects involved, so even if it’s true, you shouldn’t say it.”

Nie Huaisang heaved a sigh. “But da-ge –”

“Time for medicine,” Nie Mingjue said firmly, and lifted the bowl to his lips.

Nie Huaisang had a mild case of food poisoning, causing a stomachache, vomiting and a low-grade fever – Wen Qing had determined that it wasn’t infectious, but also, rather grimly, figured out that the source of the illness was most likely a particular treat that Nie Huaisang had generously shared with both her and Wen Chao, and sure enough they were both bedridden less than a day later. Luckily, Wen Qing had had enough time to boil the base for the medicine they needed, and while he wasn’t at her level, much less the now-absent Wen Ning’s, even Nie Mingjue could follow directions well enough to add the final ingredients right before serving.

(Even Wen Zhuliu, who remained Wen Chao’s bodyguard despite their best efforts, had fallen ill, except his version had been significantly worse – more or less non-stop emissions out both ends, and out of self-preservation Nie Mingjue had insisted that he remain in the servants’ quarters far away from all of them.)

Nie Huaisang finished drinking the medicine, making a face that only went away when Nie Mingjue stuffed something sweet into his mouth to help get rid of the taste. “Will you be all right helping out?”

“Of course I will,” Nie Mingjue said. “I haven’t forgotten how to help host a party.”

“No, I meant…”

Nie Mingjue shrugged. Normally, Wen Ruohan had enough concern for his face to prefer that Nie Mingjue avoid showing his own shortly after he’d been insolent enough to warrant punishment, but due to the food poisoning they were short on young masters to greet all the incoming people – and their guests were too important not to be greeted by someone with status.

“I’ll use some powder, it’ll be fine,” he said. “And anyway, even if someone notices, it’s not like they would be bold enough to comment; they’re here to ask Sect Leader Wen for a favor, after all. Who will even pay attention to me long enough to notice?”

The answer, Nie Mingjue swiftly learned, was Yu Ming, a crotchety old grandmother from Meishan Yu in Sichuan who didn’t like the food (not spicy enough), her chair (the first one was too rickety, the second too soft), her peers (idiots, all of them), her drink (they’d served tea and she wanted wine, and then later on it was the other way around), and, most problematically, was one of the more influential sect leaders on the Jiang sect’s side. Not exactly someone they wanted to offend by providing inferior hospitality.  

Nie Mingjue ended up abandoning his now habitual corner in the back of the room to dash back and forth dancing attendance on her, run ragged and breathless by all of her demands.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise when she approached him in his corner during the banquet’s dessert course, and he straightened up at once, saluting politely. “Sect Leader Yu,” he said, suppressing a desire to moan and maybe beg for mercy; his legs were killing him. How this managed to be worse than serious saber training he had no idea, but it was. “Is the dessert not to your liking? I can get you something cool instead –”

“Sit down, boy,” she growled. “The crystal cakes are fine, and I’m tired of looking up at you. How tall are you? Six chi?”

“…five and a half, maybe five and three-quarters,” he confessed, sitting down obediently. At this point, she could tell him to jump out a window and he probably would – she had a very sharp walking stick and no hesitation about waving everywhere. No sympathy for her miserable victims, either.

“And you’re how old?”

“Seventeen.”

“Slowed down yet?”

“…not yet.”

She huffed. “That’s all we need, another Nie giant. I told your father that he was making a mistake, marrying a woman that needed to duck to get through doors…that how you got that black eye?”

“Huh?” Nie Mingjue said unintelligently, still caught by the mental image – he scarcely remembered his mother, having been very young when she left, but it was nice to think that it wasn’t just the perspective of having been a toddler that had made her appear quite so towering. “Oh, I – uh – training accident.”

Yu Ming squinted at him. “Same training accident that dislocated three of your fingers and a kneecap, did a number on your ribs, and cut your back up so bad that you need bandages and –” She inhaled. “– at least two doses of bai mao gen to replenish the blood lost?”

Nie Mingjue opened and closed his mouth wordlessly. Finally, yielding under her glare, he muttered, “I didn’t dislocate my kneecap.”

He might’ve preferred that, actually. Dislocations could be shoved back into place with relatively little issue; he’d sprained it, instead. A bad fall from when he’d shamefully broken and tried to run from the Fire Palace, futilely seeking safety, a place where he neither had to hurt people nor be hurt himself.

Not that such a place existed in the Nightless City, of course. He’d only been dragged back after, as he ought to have expected, and then things had gotten much worse, but he hadn’t really been thinking his actions through at the time.

“Dislocated, not dislocated, whatever. Has to be something, the way you’re dragging that left leg of yours behind you when you trot,” she said practically. “You’re a rotten liar, did anyone ever tell you that?”

“Many people,” Nie Mingjue said with a sigh. Most of them currently in bed with food poisoning, except for lucky Wen Ning away at the Lotus Pier and miserable Wen Xu now stuck standing by his father’s side, pretending to smile. “Does it matter?”

“Matter? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Other than going and applying more powder, there’s not much I can do about it even if it does offend your sight,” Nie Mingjue pointed out, reasonably enough in his view. “And no matter how many times or ways you ask it, the answer’s still going to be ‘training accident’, whether or not you believe me.”

Yu Ming poked his forehead with her finger, then his cheek. “And this is with powder,” she said, scowling and rubbing the remnants of it between her fingertips as if she hadn’t believed him that it was there until she’d verified it for herself. “If you won’t tell me anything other than ‘training accident’, will you at least tell me what you did to deserve this type of training?”

“I don’t remember,” Nie Mingjue said, and he really didn’t. All the thrashings more or less flowed together pretty well after a while, and in the end it didn’t really matter if he’d intervened on Nie Huaisang’s behalf or Wen Chao’s, whether he’d played whipping boy for Wen Xu or distracted attention away from Wen Qing – they were all close enough to be proper family now. What he did was nothing more than what you ought to do for those you loved, and he’d die before he forgot how to do that.

“Rotten liar,” Yu Ming said, maybe because she could tell he wasn’t lying, and spat on the ground. “It’s a filthy business.”

“I’m hardly going to disagree with you,” he said dryly.

“You might look a little less ragged if you did.”

He shrugged. “They say people can’t change their essential nature.”

“And what’s yours?”

“Blunt to the point of stupidity.”

“Say rather that you cut straight to the point,” she said.

“Well, you know, sabers have one blunt edge, one sharp,” he said, unable to resist a smile even if it pulled at the bruises around his eye. “I can be both.”

She was staring at him.

“…what?”

“You have dimples.”

“I’m…aware?”

He didn’t quite understand the calculating look Yu Ming had in her eyes – or, perhaps better said, he didn’t want to understand that look, and he was willing to put in a great deal of effort behind not understanding it if he had to.

“Do you want another crystal cake?” he asked her abruptly before she could say anything else. When she arched her eyebrows, he elaborated: “Sect Leader Wen will undoubtedly ask me whether I was taking good care of you, being as you are after all one of our honored guests.”

Don’t tell me anything, he meant. Even if you pity me – especially if you pity me. He has ways to make me talk. He likes making me talk.

“…fine, then,” Yu Ming said. “You said something about there being something cool?”

Nie Mingjue suppressed a groan as he dragged himself out of his seat and headed to the kitchen to see if they still had any sorbet left over.

-

“– going to be tricky,” Nie Huaisang was saying to a nodding Wen Xu as Nie Mingjue walked by. “Lanling Jin isn’t fond of making decisions.”

“But they are fond of profit,” Wen Xu pointed out.

“The question will be if there’s a way to strike the right balance without giving too much away –”

Nie Mingjue decided to believe that they were talking about pornography. People said Jin Guangshan was into that sort of thing, didn’t they?

-

Nie Mingjue trained with Baxia at least once every day, and usually more. He found the repetitive actions calming, like an active form of meditation, and he was happy to sink into the mindlessness of physical exertion and forget his worries.

Baxia was warm under his hand, as always – he thought sometimes that she’d never quite adjusted to the warmer temperatures of the Nightless City, preferring as he did the cooler weather of Qinghe.

Perhaps, in time, she would forget it.

Perhaps, in time, so would he.

Forget the cool air filling his lungs, the crisp snap of an autumn day just about to begin; forget the smell of the forests and the feeling of gravel under his shoes. Forget the strain on his muscles from climbing up a steep cliff, the taste of an early snowfall on his tongue – the metallic tang to the water, the lingering smell of smoke in the air even when there wasn’t anyone around for miles.

It felt unforgettable.

But he knew that it wasn’t. In the face of time, all things were ground down into the dust.

He would be eighteen years old this year. Still a little shy of proper adulthood, an unlucky year, if luck had anything to do with his life any longer. He’d been here for four years, just shy of a quarter of all the years he’d ever lived.

Perhaps that was what made him melancholy.

Or perhaps it was only that he had been unable to light incense on the anniversary of his father’s death yet again this year. Wen Ruohan took particular pleasure in ensuring that he couldn’t – he had spent the first year unconscious, the second year immobilized, the third…he tried not to remember.

It didn’t really matter, he supposed, since he’d always agreed in advance that Nie Huaisang would light the incense on behalf of them both, both on the anniversary and on Qingming – they hadn’t ever been given leave to return to Qinghe to sweep their ancestral graves, not once, not even when some of the other sects had complained about the impropriety of it. No one ever paid attention to Nie Huaisang, underestimating how sneaky he could be, and so he’d managed it just fine. Still, the failure to do it himself tugged at Nie Mingjue’s heart, disappointed him in himself - in his failure to be a good son, just as he so often failed to be a good brother.

He sank back into his training by force of willpower.

His cultivation was increasing at an acceptable rate, he thought – shockingly fast by all metrics, but all of his teachers said that his foundations were good, steady as mountains, and his progression through each stage was smooth and unhindered by bottlenecks. The consequences of genius, they said with a shrug.

It was about the only thing that was going in an acceptable manner.

Ma Liyuan had fallen out of favor, as Wen Xu had predicted – she’d failed to remain pregnant despite repeated efforts, and Wen Ruohan took such pleasure in criticizing her for it that Nie Mingjue suspected he’d dosed her tea with contraceptives specifically to set her up for the failure, since he didn’t actually need more sons – but her usefulness remained, so she was married in with all pomp to Wen Chao’s household as a secondary wife.

(She’d been promised the position of first wife, and threw a fit when she realized the change, but Wen Ruohan had reminded her, sneering, that that had been when she’d been a pure and untouched maiden; she really couldn’t expect them to pay such a high price for secondhand goods, now could she?)

Wen Chao obviously had no interest in her at all – she’d tried, once, to make herself up and smile at him and he’d recoiled as if he’d seen a snake, then stared at her and said, “You’re joking, right?” – so she’d taken the next best option and sent her maid to seduce him in her stead.

Wang Lingjiao was pretty enough, with curves enough to make just about any man stare, and pretty cunning to boot. In a different world, a world where Wen Chao had fallen for his father’s nasty little tricks and become a stupid oversexed princeling, a waste of space that would have been incited into fighting against Wen Xu for the sole purpose of being crushed to prove some imagined point of about the necessity of cruelty, she probably would have been able to crawl into his bed and keep her place there without much difficulty.

Wen Chao was a bit of a romantic, after all, no matter how much he tried to deny it.

As it was, when her first few efforts at flirtation failed – or, well, mostly failed, given that Wen Chao held her hands in his own during a garden stroll in the moonlight and told her, with great earnestness, that she was very beautiful and it was such a pity that he wasn’t allowed to think of women romantically until he was fifteen on pain of utmost humiliation and also was she aware of the dangers of venereal disease – Wang Lingjiao pulled back and recalibrated her approach.

This time, she went for Nie Mingjue.

“You’re joking, right?” he asked her.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Is that a deliberate reference to what Wen Chao said?”

“No, just the same idea. I’m not interested.”

“That much is obvious enough,” she said, tossing her hair. “I want you to tell me what I need to do to get someone to be interested. I don’t want to be a servant any longer.”

Nie Mingjue was at something of a loss for words.

“There must be something I can provide,” Wang Lingjiao demanded. “Some service, some use…I’m a weak cultivator, but that clearly doesn’t bother you lot – your younger brother is weak, too, though I’m still a bit worse. I’m not as dumb as Ma Liyuan; I know there’s more you can sell in life than sex, even if that’s easier. What do you want? What do any of you want?”

Wang Lingjiao was from the Yingchuan Wang cultivation clan, Nie Mingjue abruptly remembered. A smaller sect, with too many children, but a standalone sect nonetheless; their children were born as gentry, not servants. No, they must have sold Wang Lingjiao into servitude, though whether it was to get an in with Qishan Wen or simply to get rid of a budding problem – and extremely beautiful young women with poor cultivation were often a problem, especially when their beauty suggested how their mothers had gotten themselves selected to be wives, or, more likely, concubines – he did not know.

“Do you mix your own makeup?” he asked, and she stared at him. “It’s very well done.”

“…yes,” she said, giving him a strange look. “I do. None that’ll fit you, though.”

He blinked, then laughed. “No, I don’t want any; the only use I have for powder is to cover up bruises when I need to be presentable. I just meant that it seems you have a steady hand at mixing things and judging proportions – A-Qing appreciates those qualities.”

“Wen Qing?” Wang Lingjiao asked, bewildered. “You want to send me to a woman?”

“She’s expressed before that she would like to have more female company,” Nie Mingjue explained, and Wang Lingjiao’s expression only got more fish-like as she gaped at him. “A fair while back, in fairness, but the numbers really are skewed fairly strongly against her. I thought you might get along. Be friends.”

“I’ve never had a female friend in my life,” Wang Lingjiao told him.

“I thought – you’re always chatting with the other serving girls…?”

Wang Lingjiao rolled her eyes as if he were being stupid. He probably was. Forget Qishan ways, the ways of the teenaged girl were utterly beyond his grasp.

“I don’t see what you have to lose by trying,” Nie Mingjue pointed out. “I’m not interested, Xu-ge’s too paranoid to get within touching distance of anyone he thinks has an ulterior motive, A-Chao isn’t allowed to touch women for a few more years –”

“Why is that?”

“He’s gullible, and has both questionable taste and sibling-inflicted trauma relating to brothels,” Nie Mingjue explained, and Wang Lingjiao wrinkled her nose, looking a little amused despite herself. “A-Ning isn’t the type to womanize, and Huaisang is too young. Also a vicious cutthroat when it comes to interpersonal relations, so who even knows what type of person he’d like, if any.”

“I’d noticed that about him.”

“In sum, A-Qing is your best bet,” he concluded. “And all the more so if you approach her in a business-like fashion: make clear to her what benefits you bring and how you’ll compensate for the drawbacks, be practical and reasonable, and you’ll do fine. Do well, and you won’t ever need to fear being sent back to Ma Liyuan – or to Yingchuan.”

Wang Lingjiao stared at him for a moment – she hadn’t expected him to be able to figure that out, he thought, since she was just clever enough to manage to puzzle out that he was the heart and core of their little group but not quite smart enough to realize why – but in the end she seemed to take his advice to heart, nodding and walking away.

He hoped Wen Qing didn’t kill him for sending her a terrible lab assistant.

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #wen xu #wen chao #wang lingjiao #wen qing #wen ning #my fic #my fics #fire and light

[angryschnauzer]

Hey Guys,

I know i’ve not been around much this week, but my health issues have been kicking my butt.

First up the blood pressure medication i was put on meant my ankles would swell up to the point of being really painful even if i wasn’t standing, let alone walking, so i had to try and get an alternative medication but of course its more expensive so the NHS don’t like to prescribe it. Anyway, an hour of being on the phone with my GP she finally agrees to prescribe me the new meds. 5 days in and thankfully they seem to be working, as my ankles are now back to normal.

Next up my low red blood cell count due to being anaemic... well they had put me on 210mg of Iron a day (RDI for a middle aged woman is 14mg a day), as their theory is to try and get my red blood count up as quickly as possible, ignoring the side affects of taking a massive dose of iron... well, if you’ve never taken iron supplements you’re lucky; they cause constipation. And i’m not talking ‘damn i haven’t pooped today’, i’m talking ‘this poop is so hard it will literally rip your anus as it comes out’. Your bowel will get backed up and you will literally hurt the entire time, either from being so stuffed full of poop, or from horrendous ring-sting. Oh, and having to wear a sanitary pad on the back because of the bleeding. Nice, huh? (Sarcasm). Oh and then there’s the farts. Literally letting out massive grandpa farts at all times, no hiding, no ability to clench and hold it in. I had literally had to change my routine so when i dropped Little Dude at school and picked him up i wasn’t around other people, which was fucking embarrassing. 

Anyhoo, i’d had enough, i couldn’t get an appointment with my GP even over the phone, so i took myself off those tablets 3 days ago and started taking an over the counter Iron and B12 supplement which has 27mg of iron in, which is still almost double the daily RDI, but meaning my stomach can go back to normal and ya’know, live a normal life.

And all of this is because my periods are so horrendously heavy that for 2-3 days a month i can’t leave the house as will bleed through12-14 maxi tampons AND pads in 24 hours. I’m still waiting for even a consultation with the OBGYN dept to try and get a hysterectomy so ya’know, my body can stop trying to bleed me dry, but i’m now 9 weeks into being referred and i don’t even have an appointment, let alone a date to have an operation. That’s if i even get approval on the NHS. As of Monday i’ve got to start looking at having it done privately and see what the cost is, but to put it into perspective, here in the UK we ‘pay’ for our NHS by being taxed National Insurance which goes towards healthcare, and although there is some Private Medical care, the prices are on par with USA. For a Hysterectomy i could be looking at between £14-£25K, no deductible, depending on where i have it done. So i’ve also got to look into financing that, either using collateral on the house/mortgage, or take out a loan.

So, fun and games, and alongside all this i’m severely fatigued, still attempting to run a business, and look after a 6 year old with type 1 diabetes.

[cinebration]

Cordial (Napoleon Solo x Reader) [Epilogue]

The End.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Epilogue

Tagged: @ly--canthrope​, @maan24​, @eefjedegraaf​, @omgkatinka​, @tiffanypooh​, @ramenyul​, @crispysublimecupcake​, @cavillhavoc​, @martinafigoli​, @illbegoinhome, @momowhoo​

Warnings: none

Gif Source: franksgrillo

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

Through the front door, Solo heard the unintelligible sounds of your radio. Pulling out his lockpicks, he let himself into the apartment. While you hadn’t given him a key, you had given him permission to enter if he could hear the radio, as you wouldn’t be able to hear him knocking.

That you let him do so was encouraging. As he walked through the foyer, he paused, his eyes drawn to the wall adjacent to the kitchen entryway. You had hung up a bulletin board there.

The board sported several postcards meticulously pinned to the cork. The exotic locations extended all the way to the Middle East and Northern Africa.

Solo’s lips curled up into a smile. Setting down the bag of groceries he had bought for dinner, he approached the door to your painting studio and knocked sharply.

“Come in.”

He stepped in to find you seated on the ground in the same position he had first seen you in the room. The radio sat beside your knee, a canvas lying on the floor. He peered over your head to glimpse a ballerina arching forward to stretch her leg. Beside her, another ballerina was slowly materializing.

“The Degas,” he noted. “I should have that sold quickly.”

“Good. I don’t want to wait months like I did for the Vermeer.” You glanced up at him and smiled faintly. “What do I get to eat tonight?”

“It’s a surprise.”

He stepped away from you and wandered around the room, scanning the paintings stacked against the walls. There were some new ones, he noticed, some of them your own originals.

“I see you received my postcards.”

“Mhmm.”

“Which one did you like most?”

“Madrid.”

“Why that one?”

“Because Gaby told me you had to stay home one evening due to an irritable bowel.”

Solo shook his head. “You like my suffering.”

“In mild doses, yes. Keeps you on your toes.”

Solo paused by the table. The sketchbook he had seen before rested there, some pages sticking out. He flipped it open with one finger.

The missing pages.

They were all in pencil and ink drawings of him. Solo stilled as he looked at each one. There was something about the way you captured him on the page that spoke to him. Sometimes he was in full suit, sometimes without his jacket and tie. Sitting, standing, lounging.

Sleeping.

He paused on one of him in bed, lying on his back, one arm thrown overhead, his hair mussed with sleep. There was a softness to him in the way your pencil had traced the contours of his face. A loving touch.

Solo slowly closed the book and turned back to you. Your face in three-quarter profile afforded him a view of the scar and the curve of your eyelashes.

A thin cord hung around your neck. The wedding ring from your first mission dangled on the end.

His chest tightened. The night he returned to apologize after the Schwartz incident, he had left it on the kitchen counter just prior to excusing himself. No mission attached. Just a memento, one he wasn’t sure you would keep.

Striding over to you, he toed over the corner of the tarp you sat on and sat down beside you on the wooden floor.

“What’re you doing?”

“I thought I would see things from your perspective.”

You snorted but didn’t reply.

Solo raised his hand and gently passed his thumb over the scar on your jaw. You froze.

His fingers curled gently behind your ear, cupping your face. Gently he turned you to look at him.

Apprehension flitted in your eyes.

Solo leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours. They felt feather-soft against you, warm and inviting. Gentle.

Breathtaking.

You leaned into the kiss. Solo slid his other hand up to your face, cupping your head for better access. Time felt suspended as he kissed you deeply, conveying to you the depths of the emotions he struggled to express.

When he pulled away, you both panted in unison, searching each other’s eyes. Solo felt overwhelmed, his head swimming.

“I thought you didn’t want to tether yourself to a deadweight,” you managed to quip.

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“Our first meeting, you did. Gaby and Ilya can confirm it. Should I call them? I can—”

Solo captured your mouth in another breath-stealing kiss.

“The only deadweight I know,” he said, “is Peril.”

You laughed. “He is bigger than you.”

“Taller, yes, but not bigger.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

“Shall I prove it?”

“Did I not say you were a man of action?”

Solo grinned but refrained from kissing you again. You frowned, though a glint of mischief danced in your eyes.

“I should make dinner,” he said.

“Really? Putting dinner before pleasure, Napoleon? How very unlike you.”

His heart leapt on hearing his name. “I promised you dinner. I don’t want to spoil it by having dessert first.”

You squinted at him before saying, “Uh-huh. I guess I can wait.” You plucked up your brush again. “I’ve only been waiting,” you grumbled.

“It will be worth it.”

“It better be.”

“Will you ever give me a break?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Solo’s laughter filled the room, harmonizing with yours.

#Napoleon Solo x Reader #Napoleon Solo #Napoleon Solo imagine #Henry Cavill x Reader #Henry Cavill #Henry Cavill imagine #The Man from U.N.C.L.E. #The Man from UNCLE

[moony-meadow]

The Very Hungry Beelzebub (3)

Previous Part / Next Part

“Uhhh…” Beelzebub was frozen. He was clearly unsure whether to reveal everything to Mammon in hopes of getting his help, or concocting some kind of lie to protect both his and my dignity. And I had a feeling that, unlike Mammon, Beel didn’t want to make the decision without getting my approval first.

“It’s okay, Beel, you can tell him,” I sighed. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to finding out what Mammon’s reaction would be. I honestly wasn’t entirely sure what to expect.

Though I couldn’t see it, I could easily imagine the confused expression currently painted on Mammon’s face as he wondered why he’d just heard my disembodied voice. No doubt he was looking around the room, searching for the source of the sound. “Huh? What was that?” he questioned, sounding thoroughly befuddled.

Poor Beel was going to be forced to explain the bizarre situation. Of course, I could try to do it, but it seemed like something that would be more easily done by someone not hidden away inside a stomach.

I could feel Beel take a nervous breath. He was obviously not looking forward to this. Despite being younger (and less powerful) than Mammon, he had never really acted like it. Beel would never take orders from the second oldest, and he showed no qualms about stepping on his toes. But now, he was anxious about admitting the truth to Mammon. What exactly he was afraid of, I didn’t know. Did he think his brother would be angry, or disappointed?

“After I started to recover from being sick, I got hungry...really hungry,” Beel began. “I-I wasn’t in control of myself. I ate everything in the kitchen.” I placed a hand on one of the fleshy walls, hoping it would come across as reassuring. “And then...and then Y/N came in.” He winced as he said it, and honestly, I did too.

“What exactly are ya sayin’?” Mammon’s voice had taken on an edge, a dangerous edge I hadn’t ever heard before.

Beel swallowed hard. “Mammon, I...I shrank Y/N and ate them.” He spit out the last part of the sentence, as if he was worried if he didn’t say it fast enough, he would never say it.

“You what?!” Mammon roared. I heard a commotion, and then suddenly everything around me lurched. I threw my arms out to brace myself against the walls. I definitely had not missed being thrown around like a ragdoll inside someone’s stomach, completely subject to their massive movements. “No, that can’t be right. Y/N has a pact with you. They woulda ordered you to stop.”

I could visualize the kicked puppy look on Beel’s face perfectly as he admitted to what he’d done in his hunger-fueled delirium. “They couldn’t. I put a silencing spell on them.”

More rough movements rocked my world, and then I heard, as well as felt, an echoing slam. I had a suspicion Mammon had just shoved Beel against a wall, which was difficult for me to imagine. I didn’t think I had ever seen him get violent with his brothers, or anyone for that matter.

“Mammon! Relax, I’m fine!” I shouted. The last thing I wanted was for things to get more physical, for my own sake as well as for Beel and Mammon’s. Seeing the brothers bicker and get at each other’s throats was commonplace, but I never enjoyed witnessing them coming to blows.

“Y/N?” Mammon exclaimed, his tone of voice instantly shifting. “Y/N, if you didn’t order Beel not to hurt you then you’re in danger! You’ll get digested--”

“Don’t worry, as soon as I got my voice back I made sure that wouldn’t happen,” I promised. The unfiltered concern in Mammon’s voice was more than a little endearing. The guy was quick to play the aloof, uncaring demon, though of course I knew that was all an act. It was refreshing to hear him being genuine and not attempting to hide his true feelings.

I could feel Beelzebub’s heartbeat begin to come down from its heightened rate as the tension in the room began to lessen. Once again he placed a gentle hand against his stomach, and I reciprocated with my much smaller hand on the other side.

“The only problem is I can’t bring them back up the same way you did,” Beel told Mammon regretfully.

“I guess that means you found ‘em tasty, huh?” Mammon said in a grumpy tone. Evidently he was aware of the little stipulation that prevented the Avatar of Gluttony from throwing up. I wasn’t shocked to hear Mammon was none too pleased about “his human” getting eaten by another demon. The Avatar of Greed was nothing if not possessive.

“Even the worst humans have a good flavor,” Beel remarked. “Of course Y/N would be leagues ahead of them.” My heart fluttered at the compliment, though it was a bit spoiled by the context of said compliment. I was glad Beel considered me to be “leagues ahead” of the worst humans, though I didn’t really like the fact that that seemed to go hand in hand with my level of tastiness.

“None of that matters,” I called out, eager to direct the conversation away from how enjoyable I apparently was to eat. “What matters is getting me the hell out of here.”

“Damn right,” Mammon was quick to reply. I had a feeling his determination was in large part attributed to his possessiveness.

Before Mammon had eaten me, when he was trying to convince me to agree to the whole endeavor in the first place, he had mentioned a backup place in case he was unable to cough me up naturally. His exact words had been, “if I can’t get ya out naturally, I could always just swallow the end of a string and pull ya out that way.” While the idea did sound pretty ridiculous and silly, I didn’t see any reason why it couldn’t work.

“Mammon, do you really think Beel swallowing the end of a string would work?” I questioned. I would be more than a little pissed if he had only offered that as a suggestion to trick me into letting myself get swallowed.

“Oh yeah, good idea!” Mammon exclaimed. “Lemme go find somethin’ that’ll work.”

“Wait, hold on a second--” Beel started to protest but was quickly interrupted.

“Beel, you should go to Y/N’s room so we don’t gotta worry about anyone walkin’ in on us.” After that came the sound of hurried footsteps exiting the room.

Beel remained still for a moment before releasing a soft sigh. “I’m going to make my way to your room,” he announced. “I doubt we’ll run into anyone at this hour, but just try not to move too much just in case.” He gave one last soft pat to his stomach before heading off.

While Beel definitely seemed to be making an effort to move slowly and carefully, the ride inside his stomach was still fairly unsteady. While it may have been my second time being eaten, that didn’t mean I was anywhere near used to the experience of riding around in a giant stomach.

Thankfully the trip to my bedroom didn’t last long and was completely uneventful. Once I heard the sound of the door clicking shut behind us, I let out a relieved sigh. “Is it okay if I sit down?” Beel asked tentatively.

A little smile formed on my face. Beel was so considerate and sweet. It was definitely a different experience being in his stomach than in Mammon’s. Aside from Beel’s far more mindful behavior, his stomach was also significantly bigger than Mammon’s had been. Of course that wasn’t surprising. He was the Avatar of Gluttony after all.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I replied with a light chuckle.

My environment creased slightly, signalling that Beelzebub had gone ahead and taken a seat. I myself took a seat at the bottom of the stomach, reclining slightly. Feeling much more confident that I would make it out of this situation alive, I allowed myself to relax a little bit. To be honest, being inside someone’s stomach was kind of comfy in its own weird way. I had gotten one of the best night’s sleep I’d had in awhile when I’d spent the night with Mammon. Of course, I would never admit that. Mammon’s head was already big enough as it was.

“Hey, Y/N?” I could feel Beel tracing patterns on the outside of his stomach as he spoke. “You know that I don’t, you know, just see you as food, right?” There was nervousness in his voice, as well as a large dose of guilt. He clearly hadn’t forgiven himself for what he’d done despite me having already given my forgiveness.

I paused for a moment. All seven of the demon brothers viewing me as tasty in some capacity was something I had accepted a while ago. I had forged friendships with them knowing that fact. At the start, the only thing keeping any of them from eating me had been my status as an exchange student. However, I believed things had changed. I couldn’t imagine any of the brothers intentionally trying to bring harm to me anymore. Even Belphegor had gone from wanting to kill me to being a close friend.

So maybe they all still secretly imagined eating me. It didn’t matter. Because I was convinced that none of them would put that desire before my wellbeing--so long as they were in their right mind of course. “Don’t worry, I know,” I reassured the demon.

“You’re sure?” Beel asked uncertainly. “Because I know I always talk about how delicious you look, and I ask if I can eat you sometimes--”

“Hey, I get it...well I sort of do anyway,” I said. “Humans are usually on the demon menu. I suppose it’s normal for you to want to eat us.” I added with a shrug.

I tried to imagine the situation from the demon perspective. To put it into human terms, I had to guess it would be like having a delectable ice cream sundae walking around and talking. I definitely wouldn’t feel comfortable eating a sentient ice cream...but that was beside the point.

“That doesn’t make what I did okay,” Beel stated firmly.

I sighed. “Well no, but like I said, that wasn’t really you.” I didn’t care that he wanted to eat me when he was in his right mind. All that mattered to me was that he didn’t actually do it.

It seemed likely that Beel would try to argue with me, but he didn’t get the chance before I heard the bedroom door opening. “Alright, let’s get Y/N outta there!” Mammon announced.

#shall we vore #g/t #giant/tiny #g/t vore #soft vore

[anthonyed]

I'll keep you warm, stevetony (fluff mayhaps?)

Anon, not gonna lie: I did the prompts in order so the one I did before this were angst and hurt/comfort respectively which made me forgot how to write fluff for a sec. Point is: before I wrote the actual (what I hope) fluff (above cut and some below), I wrote something that leans more to hurt/comfort/soft (some weird genre idk) and I’m including that under the cut just because.

Hope at least one of the below satisfies your fluff need, anon :) (from this list: "I'll keep you warm")

-//-

Steve is something else. 

Well, he's many things in the sense that you see or hear him do that and be like, yeah. That sounds like Steve. 

But then, there are other things he'd do and nobody would buy Tony when he says: "Steve did that! I swear, Pepper, I'm not exaggerating."

Like right now, coming into the workshop wrapped neck down in their comforter which -

"What are you doing?" Tony asks, jaw slack, voice high and airy in disbelief, mouth agape and eyes wide behind his safety goggles. 

Lucky for him, he created JARVIS when he was 21 and had a stroke of brilliance in the middle of an ugly grieving so he doesn't have to suffer a third-degree burn from a hot glue gun today. 

Steve though, he plops in front of Tony with his massive comforter wrapped form and burrows into it deeper, letting only baby blue eyes peek out like a damned mole - Jesus Christ - and he whines, "I'm cold."

Tony's mouth snaps close at one. His eyes narrow and he points the glue-gun at Steve. "You," he says, "You, you, you. I know exactly what you're doing."

But Steve is a stubborn, stubborn man. He makes sure he gets what he wants by the sheer force of his will if that's what he's left to give. Or maybe it's Tony who's a weak dumb man when it comes to Steve.

Either way, Steve purses his lips, bats his lashes and tilts his head at an angle. All the while looking at Tony with those baby blue puppy eyes and that's all it takes for Tony to drop the glue gun and groan into his hands. 

This is not fair! "Jarvis, I need this footage to show Pepper tomorrow morning," he says, standing up. 

Steve straightens up, letting his whole head pop out of the blanket burrito he'd wrapped himself in and Tony makes it a point to chuck his goggles with an extra dose of venom while glaring at him. 

"Captain America, they said. Prime man full of virtues, my ass. This!" he points at Steve's exaggerated innocent face. "This is not virtue. This is playing dirty."

"But I'm not Captain America," Steve grins, dropping the facade as he waddles clumsily behind Tony, marching out of the shop; the extra length of the comforter dragging like a tail behind him. "I'm Steve Rogers, making sure my boyfriend comes to bed on time."

Tony waits until they're inside the elevator to stare him up and down and he lets out a defeated sigh, "Still not fair."

Steve smiles, smug and well - he has a very good reason to be, no shit. "All is fair in love and war," he says, chest puffing out in pride.

"No," Tony draws the line. "You say that one more time and I'm going straight back to the shop."

The effect is instant like he'd flicked a switch and Steve goes from a smug bastard to his faux innocent puppy eyes burrowing into his comforter wrap.

"But I am cold." He mumbles into it, blinking up at Tony. "I need you to warm me up."

And the elevator door opens, but Tony has already made up his mind quicker. "Are you now?" He pouts back, cocking his head sideway, playing into whatever his boyfriend's doing.

But the wiggle to his lips betray his mischievous intent spectacularly and Steve's already one foot out of the elevator by the time Tony lunges for him. 

Super soldier and their super speed: "Come here, you!" Tony calls, breaking into a jog and God forbid, he'd lived close to half a century of his life; Steve even worse, but also not. He's 33 if they're counting out the years he'd spent in the ice. Still old enough to not run but he is; bolting into their shared bedroom like the devil himself is at his tail, chuckles like chiming bells following his path. 

And no, Tony thinks, after the first few feet. He refuses to play chase at this age, but not so much to tickling Steve in the bed once he'd caught up. Asking, "You want me to keep you warm? Huh? Is that what you want? I'll keep you warm. Come here, you big blonde cheat." 

All the while Steve's laughing into the pile of comforter he'd shed as soon as he'd accomplished his mission, twitching with every poke and jab to his flanks.

"Uncle!" He gasps. "Uncle, uncle, uncle!"

And Tony lets him go. Breath heaving as he rolls off of Steve, brushing hair out of his eyes. "You asked for this." He tells his panting boyfriend; red in the face, hair mussed, spilling soft all over his face and he looks so precious that Tony has to just cup his face and smack a kiss on his grinning mouth.

"You win," he admits, rolling out of the bed and peeling off his shirt, letting it fall in a lump on the floor as he walks to the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

"This time!" He shouts back just to make it clear, so Steve doesn't get any wild ideas about fooling Tony again in the future.

He thinks he hears a faint "Every single time," but promptly decides to ignore that. 

-//- vers 2 -//-

“Come here,” Steve says, stretched out in bed looking expectant like everything’s perfect.

Any other time, Tony would have leaped at the chance. He’s never been a guy for picket fences and happy endings but sitting in one of Barton’s kid’s rooms changes perspective. 

If you look out the window, you can see the barn cum garage and Tony’s been there earlier this afternoon, checking on their tractor, speaking with Fury about stuff and he’d came out of there for hours now but there was a thought he had when he was still inside: 

Wood fire is great; Steve could chop the logs and I can work the tractor. We’ll have to discuss who cooks dinner, and there’ll be a kid, a boy running around calling for us, maybe. One day - Maybe.

And that thought’s still swimming in his head. 

The thing is, they’re still raw from battle. Just hours ago, they’d almost had a fight (if not for Mrs Barton) and now, Steve’s here on a single bed pretending like that didn’t happen, calling Tony for a cuddle.

“I’m fine.” He says, turning back to the gauntlet he's fiddling with under a low table lamp, straining his eyes behind his glasses.

It’s late summer but something about the secluded farmhouse in the middle of nowhere makes the wind chiller. And his body responds with a shiver when a draft passes by. He looks up, checks the window and he knows it’s closed tight; he did that a minute ago. 

“Tony,” Steve sighs, sounding closer than before and when he looks up, he’s right; Steve is closer, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed now - Didn’t even hear him move, which is a surprise, so Tony looks at the bed frame, wondering what material it’s made of. 

“Tony,” Steve calls again. Softer.

He looks up. Steve looks weary, but he strains to smile. “Come to bed,” he says. “You need rest.”

And Tony knows he does, but- 

But, he doesn’t deserve to rest. He is the reason why all this happened - is happening - in the first place. He caused this - How can he rest?

He goes back to the gauntlet.

And he forgets just how stubborn Steve is until he feels a hand on his shoulder. Then another lands over his, before he can even turn around, to pry the gauntlet from his fingers. “Come on,” Steve says, pressing the words into his temple.

With one hand, he frees the tiny wrench from Tony’s grip while he holds Tony’s head to his mouth with the other, pressing a kiss and he combs his hair back, leaning away, looking into Tony’s eyes when a shiver wrecks down Tony’s spine.

“It’s kinda cold tonight,” he smiles, soft eyes tempting like whiskey on a lonely evening, “Warm me up?” and Tony has to roll his eyes at that.

“What are you? 12?” he snorts. “Is this how you flirt, because Rogers you better count your lucky stars you landed me for your boyfriend. I let you get away with this. Anyone else, I doubt they will.”

“I got blue eyes and blonde hair,” Steve shrugs and it’s lame; Tony knows what he’s doing, knows it’s working, but it’s not like he’s fighting against Steve’s efforts, anyway.

They’re lame; could be better. But it’s past midnight in some unregistered region on earth and they’re tired from fighting his own creation, tired of arguing; it's a picket fence farm with children and everything feels like fairy dreams here. 

Tony doesn’t do fairy dreams but Steve makes him want to. He makes him think: maybe - one day. 

Maybe that’s why he lets Steve have that satisfaction of pulling him up to his feet and onto the bed.

Maybe that’s why he lets Steve tuck his head under his chin and says, “I’ll keep you warm, super soldier.”

#stony #i love them in case that hasn't been made clear yet #stevetony #mine #prompts #HOW DO I KEEP INJECTING MY REPLY INTO ASKBOXS??? ASKSJSJSKS