#(considering that they exist in like. parallel universes or something)

[mono-socke]

Two River Jeremy: I heard you and Lyceum hooked up in my other me's room last night!

River: But- Jeremy! It's not what you think!

Two River Jeremy: I WONT HESITATE BITCH.

[Insert mountain dew red shoot that River immediately dodges]

https://youtube.com/shorts/_b5NB2QCXUU?si=iMyZOnT-jFSldJf4

OH GODDD

yes.

poor SQUIP but also, let Jeremy have his peace for like FIVE FCKING MINUTES WILL YOU

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

GYM CRUSH SIMON

sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.

you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.

you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.

there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.

at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.

midnight schedule it was.

it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.

the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.

and then there was him.

tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.

the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.

(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)

he moved through his workout with terrifying

efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.

you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.

“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.

you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”

“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”

you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”

he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"

“i do not know his entire workout routine.”

your friend raised a brow.

you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”

his brow lifted higher.

“…and arms on thursdays.”

silence.

“right.”

“shut up.”

you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.

the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.

and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.

What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.

so, you stayed quiet..

until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.

in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.

“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”

“i use it,” you protested.

“you walk through it.”

okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.

you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.

you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.

the bar didn’t budge.

you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.

okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—

"y’need a spotter?"

you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.

you swallow. "uh."

his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"

"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."

he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.

your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.

"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.

you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!

he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.

"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"

you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"

"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.

you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."

you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.

he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.

a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.

but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.

"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"

he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."

you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?

he hesitates. "depends."

"on?"

"the day."

you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."

"sure it is."

you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.

it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)

you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.

"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."

and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”

he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”

you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.

"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."

you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.

“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”

“drop it.”

“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”

“drop it.”

some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.

it’s unbearable.

like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”

you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.

you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.

the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."

you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”

he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."

you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”

his eye twitches. “just drink it.”

and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.

one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.

you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.

simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.

"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.

you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”

he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.

"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.

you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—

his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.

"fix that grip, sweetheart."

you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.

"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."

your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.

his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."

you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.

you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.

and then— "good girl."

barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.

your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.

you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.

and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.

"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."

simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"

your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."

his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"

"yes."

he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."

you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.

"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."

your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.

"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."

low, warm, approving—

"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."

simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.

"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”

“please.”

the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.

simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.

his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.

his hips roll up.

you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.

he does it again.

your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.

"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."

his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.

his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.

you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.

"fuck-"

he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.

"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."

your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.

"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"

you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.

his patience snaps.

one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.

simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.

he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.

the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.

simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”

he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—

he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.

"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"

"yes- yes, please-"

"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."

he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.

the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.

"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"

you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.

his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”

your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.

simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”

you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”

he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.

your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.

his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”

then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.

you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.

simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”

he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.

his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”

you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.

his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.

“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”

he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.

then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.

his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”

the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.

simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—

he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.

"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."

your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"

"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"

you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"

"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."

you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."

then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.

you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.

"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.

"s’not fair," you mumble.

"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.

"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."

you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.

"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"

you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.

when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.

then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—

you take him.

the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.

"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."

you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.

breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"

"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."

but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."

his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."

"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"

he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."

then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.

"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.

simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."

the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.

"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"

he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.

it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.

but you’re already gone.

your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.

"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"

you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.

he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.

"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."

"s-simon-"

"what, love? too far gone already?"

his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.

you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"

"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."

he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.

"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.

"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."

he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.

"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"

"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.

"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."

then he fucks you properly.

[4mrplumi]

a spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfam concept different from my spidernoir one

exposition is fairly simple, peni-parker!reader comes back from the boarding school they were sent to by the family to "keep them out of vigilante business" but are blissfully unaware that for the past few months, peni!reader's been working on a mech suit to support their new found spider powers, after getting bitten by a radioactive spider while away at school.

with access to bruce's batcave, luke's indulgence in your "academic strive" and your stealth and sneaking about, you're able to make your suit pretty quickly. unresolved feelings from your past, and this sense of debt you feel, you decide to repay by being SP//dr... spider for easy-comms.

the thing is, peni!reader is an anomaly, since this spiderman in this universe in not meant to exist. maybe some stuff with the spider society and all can come in and we find out that actually, the spider that bit peni!reader was from this universe and spiderman is allowed to exist here.

but to investigate what a radioactive spider with the wrong genetic data was doing in your universe, where is wasn't supposed to be* spidernoir agrees to drop down to gotham to help peni!reader to figure it out. he becomes, essentially, a father figure for reader, something that bruce hasn't been able to due to the weight of reader's and his past.

meanwhile, when peni!reader comes back to the manor from 'boarding school' the family notices physical and mental changes in them. their more distant, dismissive... confident in their skin. though you guys never had much time to talk or hangout or bond like they do, the development is difficult to notice.

additionally, sightings of a man in a trench coat and a car-sized robot swinging around have been going around, doing god knows what. the batman doesn't like being unprepared, and tries to scour out their identities and whereabouts. i have some really small little ideas that'd be funny for the whole run, like spidernoir showing up for a parent-teacher conference instead of bruce, ai assistant karen, commentary from spiderpunk, constantine and strange link up and also delve a little into what the themes between spiderman variants, spiderman, and batman are that make them so different are.

i'm rotting away like an oxidised apple but rlly dont know if i should write it cus ive got so much 2 do... if ppl are interested at all i mkigbt consider

in conclusion: I LOVE YOU SPIDERNOIR AND PENI PARKER!!!!!

*supposed to be = not in the sense that how mile's spider teleported to another earth, but like, peni!reader was just not meant to be bit, and that spider is not supposed to exist. the dc and marvel universes are parallel, with peni!reader's existence being a small, hairline road between the two.

[gghostwriter]

You’re the Risk, I’ll Take it

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader

Summary: The three times Spencer followed advice and the one time he didn't (or as I'd like to better explain it, the three times Spencer fails to flirt and the one time it worked)

Warning: fluff! Just fluff!

A/n: I wanted to write something cute this time with Season 1 Spencer in mind--one of the best eras if you ask me. Hopefully I did him justice in this. The idea of this cute baby boy trying to flirt is too precious honestly. Also, if a guy did the last act for me, I'd fold like a lawn chair, yep. Risk by Gracie Abrams was on repeat while I was writing this and no proof reading was done. Let me know what you think!

Main masterlist

The first move Spencer tried was advised by Derek Morgan, the renowned ladies man

“Kid, admit it. You like her,” Morgan pestered him with a slight smile on his face. 

Spencer scoffed, trying to throw him off from the truth but monumentally failing. “S-she’s my closest friend. We joined the team at the same time, of course I feel most comfortable with her,” he noted his companion’s eyebrows raising higher and higher with each word. “Plus, she likes hearing what I say even if it has no relation to the case. She asks me questions and genuinely remembers.”

Now it was Morgan’s turn to scoff. “You could be talking about Star Trek and it’s physics mistakes and she’ll still hang on to every word you say.” 

“Actually, there aren’t that many scientific errors in Star Trek. Especially considering—”

“Reid.” 

“Right,” he nodded once, trying to push away the urge to continue further. “That still doesn’t mean I like her.” 

Morgan tapped the wheel twice before turning to face his partner. “Then answer me this. How do you feel when she walks through the office doors?” 

“Happy, I get the same feeling when I see you or Elle come in too,” he found his fingers very interesting then. Like they held the key to unlocking the mysteries of Dark Matter and the answer to the controversial scientific theory ‘Do parallel universe exist?’. He wasn’t telling the whole truth—didn’t want to because how could he, a man of science, explain the other bodily reactions he has when you walk in a room. How he hears his heart stutter in his chest with just a glimpse of you—the first time it happened, he thought nothing of it, but by the third, he considered making an appointment with a specialist for possible heart arrhythmia. How he sees the room brighten when you smile in his direction—perhaps light sensitivity, and how he feels his body heat up when you utter the words ‘Good morning, Spence.’—possibly hot flashes. Self diagnosis that he ruled out once he found you to be the common denominator. That left him with a riddle, a personal conundrum he lost countless of sleep over trying to solve.

“That’s a lie, Reid. You can’t be that happy to see me. You never blush like a tomato when I enter the room. For Greenaway, I could see it but for me, nu-uh,” he argued back. “Okay, what about when she’s not there, what do you feel then?” 

“Sad, similar to how I’d react with you and Elle,” he blurted out another half truth. Another surface level answer that doesn’t fully cover how lost he feels without your comforting presence beside him, how gloomy any room he enters in without you in it, and how incomplete his days were without hearing your voice. 

Morgan snickered. “Lies, you have to learn how to lie better to fool an FBI profiler, Reid. You don’t think I—the team, notice that you’re quieter when she isn’t on the case with us?”

“Wait. Wait, the whole team?” His voice goes up an octave. You were part of the team, did that mean you knew of the effect you had on him too? “D-Does everyone have the same idea as you do? Everyone?” 

“Not everyone, kid. Your secret is still safe,” He smiled wide like a cat that caught the canary. “So it’s true then, you like her.” 

Spencer knew there was no escape from trap, he was just glad that his secret still remained classified from the other party involved. His shoulders sagged as he nodded to confirm Morgan’s findings.

“So what’s your play then?”

His head whipped to face his companion so fast he felt his meticulously styled hair escape the confines of his ears. “Play? There’s no play. Nothing. I’m not going to do anything and this conversation stays between us.” 

“Oh c’mon lover boy, you have to do something,” Morgan challenged. “Y’know she likes you back, right?” 

“No she doesn’t! I mean, why would she?” Spencer rambled on, unable to comprehend what Morgan was saying. “She’s her—beautiful, smart, and cool. Every case we get, there’s at least one police officer hitting on her. And I’m me—I talk too much and get awkward in every situation. The exact opposite!”

“Reid, don’t sell yourself short. She likes you, trust me on this.” He paused, listening to the update on the intercom before continuing on. “So here’s what you’re going to do. Compliment her outfit, girls appreciate that. Easy enough, don’t you think?”

Spencer really didn’t think so after all he had the tendency to go off on a tangent whenever he talks to you but he agrees nonetheless. If Morgan believes he could do it then he couldn’t mess it up, right?

———

Wrong. It was wrong to take Morgan’s advice. Never mind he can recall everything he has ever read, never mind he has an IQ of 187. What good were his talents if he, Dr. Spencer Reid, couldn’t string the proper sentences along?

It started when you walked into the office wearing this light yellow blouse that made you more radiant than he thought possible. It was as if the a ray of sun had graced the bullpen and stunned his mind into silence, rendering him tongue-tied. All his monologues and hypothesis bouncing around his overactive brain fell away and the only thing he could think of was how pretty you look.

Morgan cleared his throat, bringing him back to the living. Spencer averted his awestruck gaze and busied himself with an imaginary lint on his red sweater. 

“Hey Y/N, did anything good this weekend?” Morgan asked as you settled into your desk adjacent to his.

You shrugged nonchalantly and teased back. “I bet it wasn’t good as yours, Morgan. Picked anyone up last Friday or are your charms no longer working?”

“Huh, i see where this is going. Somebody woke up on the wrong side of bed today.”

Morgan chanced a peek at Spencer and internally groaned. How you didn’t notice the kid’s crush on you was beyond him—all the staring and blushing he does when you’re near was a dead giveaway.

“Reid. Reid,” Morgan called out.

He closed his mouth and gulped. “Hm, what?” 

Morgan pointedly stared at him and titled his head towards your direction. A movement lost to you as you noted Elle leaving Gideon’s office.

Spencer opened his mouth to catch your attention but before he could even utter your name, Elle intervened. “Question for you, the foot path killer. Why’d he stutter?”

You swiveled to face her, not having caught Spencer’s intent to speak to you. The unit chief then called them in for a case—an arson case in a university campus. His shoulders drooped as they rushed to the jet afterwards with no chance of small talk. 

When there was a lull in the plane—case discussion finished, he steeled his already apprehensive nerves and took the chance, quickly wishing he hadn’t.

“S-so, your shirt’s yellow,” he stated out loud like it was some sort of revelation. 

“Yes,” you drawled out, unsure as to where he was going with this. “That’s right, Spencer.”

He drummed his fingers on the table and continued on. “Did you know that airplanes tend to avoid the color yellow as it causes dizziness and nausea? A number of studies have shown those exact results and that’s why it’s almost never used in interiors of various forms of transportation and rarely use in advertising. It’s like how the red is the most common color used by restaurants as it psychologically makes the viewer hungry.”

You looked down on your top. Yellow was one of your favorites and you specifically chose this as Penelope said and you quote, it looks good on you, brings out your eyes. Boy genius would probably react to it too so naively you splurged on it. But this—this wasn’t the response you were hoping for. “Spence, are you saying my shirt is making you feel nauseous?”

He blushed and stammered out a strong refusal. “What, no! No! I—I meant to say—you, you look nice.”

You giggled under your breath, finding his long-winded route to giving you a compliment cute. “Nice nice or airsickness nice?” 

“Nice! Just nice!” He defended on, his voice cracking at the end. He caught Morgan’s wide eyed gaze then as if he couldn’t believe what train wreck he just witnessed. 

Cheeks heating up further, Spencer slouched in his seat and busied himself with the files wishing that he could build a memory eraser so he could wipe the events from his and the team’s minds or better yet, a time machine to redo the whole thing all over again.

The second move Spencer tried was advised by Elle Greenaway, the new recruit

“Do you think it’s weird that I knew that ballad?” He questioned during one of their cases in San Diego. It bothered him since the start of the case. How Morgan had teased him about his incapability of asking out the opposite sex. Never mind that you defended him right back, that’s a lie, it made him feel special that you did but the joke was still true. A cold stone truth. 

Elle laughed, flipping her phone repeatedly on the table while waiting for the unsub to take the bait. “I don’t know how you know half the stuff you know, but I’m glad you do.”

“Do you think that’s why I can’t get a date?” He asked as he fiddled with the unfinished Rubik’s cube in his hands.

“Have you ever asked her out?”

There was no need to ask who Elle was referring to, everyone knew of his innocent—well maybe not so innocent at times specifically during his state of dreaming—crush for the second youngest member of the team. He shifted his eyes to focus a few tables before his—at you, sitting beside JJ. “No."

“That’s why you can’t get a date.” 

One of the precincts phone then rang, it was the unsub, causing him to table that conversation in his vast memory. 

———

There’s an English saying that states ‘the second time is the charm’ and Spencer was hoping there were some truth to the idiom even with no scientific explanation to back it up. 

A few cases after San Diego, he got an opening that he was unexpectedly looking for. The team was on their way back from a case in Virginia. It was late and the profilers were all tucked in their little corners of the jet decompressing while you and Spencer were huddled on the sofa quietly discussing Doctor Who. 

“How could you say your favorite is the Ninth Doctor when you haven’t even seen the older episodes?” He rambled, clearly he would have to do something about your limited knowledge in the great universe of Doctor Who. He’d like to explain it all, 695 episodes of the classic era to you. He’d take any topic really just to have your interest.

You stared into his hazel speckled eyes and smiled, amused by his reaction. “It’s a bit hard to catch up on a show that’s been around since the 70s. Plus, it’s a challenge to look for copies.” 

“Actually, the show started in the 60s—1963, to be exact,” he clarified. “Garcia has copies we could borrow and watch together. If that’s—” he cleared his throat and clenched his fists closed, feeling his nails dig into his palms. “—that’s alright with you. If—if not, there’s a convention happening this weekend. I have an extra ticket, if you want to come with—only if you’re not busy, I mean.”

“And risk you spoiling every episode to me? I’d rather watch it alone, if you don’t mind.”

That dragged his optimism to a crash as if a twenty ton weight landed on his chest, rendering him immovable. Of course you were going to say no. There was no proof that you’d reciprocate his interests—he inwardly cursed himself for believing otherwise.

“But, I’d like to go with you to the convention,” you said and silently added as your date to yourself, shifting in your seat with a blush blooming on your cheeks at the thought. “Always wanted to go to one. If you’re fine with me not being in a costume. I think it’ll be too late to find one, don’t you think?”

Just like that, the weight on his chest lifted, making him feel weightless with glee. A wide smile grew on his face, threatening to burst his cheeks as he shook his head. “That’s alright! But you—you can always dress up as Rose!”

You titled your head to the side. “Rose?” 

“You know, the Ninth Doctor’s companion?”

“I know who she is, Spence. I just thought you didn’t watch the revived series?”

He softly scoffed. “I never said that! I watched it too, mainly to compare it to the classics but I’ve seen it.”

You leaned in, wanting to ask about his opinion on it. “Well, what do you think? I happen to be part of the minority who think the actor who reprised the role did alright.”

He liked seeing you like this. It made him feel like a puppy who had his owner’s undivided attention. All wide eyed and interested in his conjectures as to why the actor was alright himself but the problems were his short stint—making people vilify him over that decision—and the material some of the writers came up with. He appreciated you nodding along and supplying your own thoughts on the subject. It warmed his heart that here was a beautiful, smart, and cool person—way out of his league, he might add—giving her precious time away to discuss a nerdy sci-fi show that he could not rant and rave to about to anyone on the team, except for Penelope, and she’s rarely on the field with them. 

Your show of interest made him feel seen. Not as an agent with 3 PHDs, not as a genius with 187 IQ, but rather as a person with a right to express himself and occupy space. He wasn’t Agent Spencer Reid with you nor Dr. Spencer Reid, he was just Spencer who likes to watch Doctor Who and read literature in their original language. 

The third move Spencer did was proposed by Penelope Garcia, the spirited tech analyst 

“What do you mean you took her to a convention? For a date?” Penelope squeaked out, unable to comprehend the logic behind the genius’ actions.

“She said she always wanted to go,” Spencer stated as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor. He had fun over the weekend. Going around booths with you, listening to invited guest panels talk about the behind the scenes, explaining the reference every costume that you’ve pointed out, and just basking in your presence beyond cases. It was a memory he had replayed over and over after it had ended. It occupied his whole mind, and that’s saying a lot, causing him to do nothing and sit in his leather sofa and smile like a lunatic during the rest of the weekend.

“Well yeah, but that’s not date material! A date is supposed to be intimate—you and I go to conventions together, do you count that as a date?” 

“What? No! No, of course not!” 

“Exactly, boy wonder. Then what makes you think she’ll count that as a date?” She countered back as she entered her office with Spencer in tow. 

Silence. Oh.

Penelope sighed, having read the despair painting his face. “Did you at least dress up as the Ninth Doctor?”

“What? No. No, I went as the Fourth Doctor. I even hand-knitted the scarf myself.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before repeating what she just heard. “You didn’t dress up as her Doctor?”

“No,” he paused, unsure where she was going with this. “Should I had?”

“Yes! Yes, you should have!” Penelope slapped his arm out of frustration. “Why didn’t you call me once she said yes? We could have talked game plan or strategy or at least have gotten you a leather jacket to match her choice of companion.”

“Oh, I messed up then, didn’t I?” He slumped despondently on the office chair. “You—you don’t think she thought of it as a date at all?”

She played with her feathered pen, trying to find a way to salvage it for Spencer. “Did you take her out to dinner after?”

He shook his head, finally realizing his mistake.

“Oh Spencer,” she approached gently. “I can scoop for details with Y/N later on and report back to you?”

He shook his head. It didn’t feel right to have Penelope betray your trust and go behind your back over a mistake that he made. You were a honest person and you deserved to be treated with respect and reverence even though all he wanted now was peer into your viewpoint of the date—not date—and figure out once and for all if you saw him as anything beyond a co-worker and a friend. 

“Hm, I think I might just a solution,” Penelope blurted out of the blue. 

He looked up with a sliver of hope blooming in his chest. Maybe third time’s the charm. Besides, Penelope was the colleague you spent most of your time out with. You once mentioned that you considered her your best friend, besides from him of course. 

“You can bake her a batch of cookies! No one can say no to that,” she excitedly explained, believing it to be full proof—except for the fact that he doesn’t know how to bake. He wants to ask you out on a date but not to the expense of burning his whole apartment building down. 

“I can’t—I can’t bake, Garcia,” he squeaked out. “Did you know that 44% of all reported home fires are caused by cooking and baking. Those fires have resulted in an average of 470 civilian deaths and 4,150 civilian—”

She interrupted. “I’ll give you my recipe and detailed instructions to follow. That’ll make it easy peasy for you, boy genius.”

“C-can’t I just buy from her favorite bakery instead?”

“No can do, Doctor. Her favorite cookies just so happen to be my creation. She told me so herself.”

“Well, can’t I just ask you to make it for me? I’ll buy the ingredients!”

“Nope,” she dragged out her refusal. “Think of it as an act of service to her. Plus don’t you think it’s highly romantic when she finds out that you baked them yourself?” She swooned just thinking about it.

“Romantic? It won’t be romantic when I burn my apartment down, Garcia.”

She sighed. “Fine, I’ll supervise if you want. This weekend, granted if we’re free. But you—” she pointed her feathered pen at him. “—better be prepared and I’m just supervising, okay? I’m not baking it myself.”

He sighed. At least having Garcia around would make it easier.

———-

It did not in fact make it easier. Spencer burnt two batches before six pieces were considered edible. Garcia couldn’t understand, hell, he also couldn’t. Baking was precise and from his scientific viewpoint, it was a lot like chemistry. He loved science and anything academic, so how is it that he failed miserably, twice, when it came to baking? 

He shook his head as he entered the office. The first one—he stole a glance at Hotch’s office and saw movement—correction, the second one arriving early. Sometimes he wondered if the unit chief ever goes home, first in and last out.

He settled in his seat before promptly fidgeting from anticipation. Statistically speaking, you arrive earlier than Morgan or Elle which gave him enough time to gift the paper bag of cookies sitting hidden in his satchel without bringing attention to and embarrassing himself. He’d like to have little to no audience if he ever does mess it up for the third time. 

He brought out the cookies, afraid they’ll get crushed between his hardbound books, and placed them on your desk before standing to wash his clammy hands and make coffee. Counter intuitive of him to do as he was already a bundle of nerves and by drinking caffeine he was doubling that but maybe the smell would calm him before shooting up his energy by drinking.

As he exited the mens room, Penelope stepped out of the elevator and squealed. “Is she here? Is she? Did I miss it?”

He shook his head vigorously, trying to silence her excited glees. “No, she’s not here yet. She’ll—” he looked at his watch and ran the numbers. “—be here soon. I’m about to brew coffee. Do you want some?” He opened the door for both of them to enter the bullpen.

“Ick, no thanks,” Penelope said, scrunching her nose at the thought of drinking even a sip before scurrying away to her cave. “I’d rather not ruin my taste buds on bad coffee.”

He laughed and turned towards the kitchenette. With the coffee brewing, he drummed his fingers on the counter and mentally rehearsed what he would say to you. If he practiced, there’s less chance of messing it up like the first time, right? In his state of concentration, he missed you entering the office in all of your beautiful glory.

“Ooh cookies!” you exclaimed as you opened the unknown package on your table.

Spencer abruptly turned, hitting his side on the corners as he did. His eyes widened as he registered you holding the unsigned paper bag of treats on your desk. 

“They must be from Penny,” You continued on, oblivious to his presence and the devastation your remark caused him. Of course, he’d find another way to mess it up. You glanced around and your smile widened as you took in his handsome presence. “Oh hey Spence! Look, Penny made me cookies!” You tip-toed out of excitement. 

He smiled at your enthusiasm for something as simple as treats in the morning. The giggle you gave out as you entered the kitchenette was enough for him to slightly care less for the truth. He loved bringing out the happiness in you. It was like his own personal sunshine shining down on him, soaking him with vitamin D and boosting his overall sense of wellbeing. “Do you want coffee with that? It’s still hot,” he offered. 

You tapped the side of your hips with his as a sign of good will. “Thanks, Spence! This is turning out to be a great day, don’t you think?”

He watched as you busied yourself with putting cream and sugar in your of cup and sighed wistfully. “I think so too.”

And the last move Spencer did was recommended by no one but himself, the awkward 187 genius

With all three acts not delivering, he promised to try one last time without any outside interference besides from yours in his memory. You always did tell him to be himself in any situation, no matter how much he stumbled through any awkward situation—always there giving him a pat on the back for encouragement. 

Over the weekend, he spent his time reading two of your favorite books—which didn’t take much but he did read them again and again, regardless of his eidetic memory, trying to understand why these specific books were your comfort. Always pushed within the confines of your go bag, dog-eared and brown from age. He wanted to know how they’ve become an extension of you and how it had shaped you to the woman he has fallen in love with. 

He found himself hunched over his dining table, underlining sentences that made him think of you, scribbling away on the margins (and sometimes on post its too), and tabbing the written pages with a variety of colors that each represent an emotion. The act in it of itself made him feel closer to you than he thought possible. Lines in the books that made him think, ah so this was what formed your kind spirit. This is why your empathy knew no bounds. And this is why your beauty is inside and out.  

Spencer laid down to rest, anxious for the next day, Monday, to come. His heart threatening to beat out of his chest but his mind oddly calm as if it had a precognition that everything would turn out just right.

———

You arrived earlier than he did, throwing him off balance. 

“Hey Spence!” You greeted with a smile. “I got you a croissant and some coffee from that shop near my place.”

He blushed and stammered out a thank you. You were wearing a deep purple blouse that matched the scarf around his neck—the birthday gift you’ve given. He was no believer of the mystics but he took all of these as a sign from the stars. There was no way he would mess this up now.

“I—I got you something too,” he looked inside his satchel, hands shaking from it all. Gods, he wished this would go well or else, he might just die from embarrassment. “It’s nothing much but—I read your two favorite books and just—I wanted to discuss it with you,” he brought out the tabbed copies and presented them to you. “These are for you. I know you have copies of your own but I-I put my own notes on which lines reminded me of you.”

Your face turned red at the notion behind it all. Here was the BAU genius, the certified lover of the classics and the academia, the man who had your affections since day one, reading two contemporary literatures just for him to present you a gift like no other. You reached out and hugged the precious copies to your chest. 

“Thank you, no one’s ever done this for me before,” you breathed out, falling deeper into attraction with the perfection in front of you. “ Hey Spence, I may sound delusional asking this and you can say no if you want to but—” you visibly gulped, unaware of the audience nearby. “—would you like to have dinner with me? I make a mean lasagna.”

He turned red and vigorously nodded. “Y-Yes. Yes, I’d love to have dinner with you.”

You giggled, sounding like wind chimes to his ears. He did too, giggle I mean, from the triumph of finally knowing that his feelings were willingly reciprocated.

“Finally, you love birds!” Morgan shouted as he swung his arm around Spencer. “Didn’t know how much we could take from this pretty boy—” pointing at him “asking for advice and you—” pointing at you “—pretty girl is as dense as a rock. Tell me again how’d you end up as profiler with those observation skills.” 

A hand whacked him at the back. “Way to ruin the moment, Morgan.” Elle chided before turning to Spencer with a smile. “See told you, you could get a date.”

[venussaidso]

Mars Dominant Themes — 𝐍𝐚𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 (part 1) 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟕

warnings!: mentions of mass-suicide and violence.

Nakshatra rulership indicates deeper behavioural patterns and specific talents rather than one’s fundamental personality, which is more governed by rashi rulership. This is why I do not prefer mixing rashi and nakshatra observations together, though there are exceptions — such as the rebellious and tantalizing nature of Mars being innately found in all Mars nakshatras and Mars signs. For example; Mars nakshatras are found in many well-known sex symbols, Anuradha may embody the Lilith archetype, Ashwini and Jyestha are known for being audacious and individualistic, while Bharani poetically merges violence — a radical form of rebellion — with beauty, making them one. But the consistent theme observed for this exploration is that Mars nakshatras focus more on bursts of energy, controversy, and the refinement through that.

There's definitely a heightened sense of energy and even aggression in this section of Earth & Air signs, supporting their pure drive through the mentioned themes I'll be touching on. And the themes are very typical of this planetary rulership.

There is this genre in challenging natural order and pursuing one's ideals, a recurring theme in Mars nakshatras, especially in ways that are so radical and even explosive. This can also be seen in mythologies that are particularly associated with Martian figures, such as Andhaka.

I may see an association with Andhaka to the Mars energy found in Ashwini nakshatra, as Andhaka was born blind, symbolizing an unreasonable destructive force. He also symbolizes darkness and ignorance, the combination of Mars's unyielding energy with Ketu's tamasic nature perfectly pointing to Ashwini. Yet, the guna of Dhanishta and Chitra is tamasic — meaning that Andhaka is a greater representation for these nakshatras. Both are considered demonic, which solidifies their connection to Andhaka who is considered a malevolent demon.

Mars is generally the planet most associated with Andhaka, as it highlights aggression and the drive for power. One of Andhaka's closest parallels are the fictional characters, Thanos and Ultron, from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. These parallels lie in the legend of Andhaka, this powerful asura (demon) who, despite his humble beginnings, sought to reshape existence according to his own vision. Though blind from birth, he gained invincibility through immense penance and sheer willpower (symbolizing the level of discipline this planet represents) and he commanded an army so strong that it threatened the cosmic balance. Andhaka believed himself worthy of ruling the universe, waging war against Shiva himself, and refusing to yield even in the face of destruction.

Like the character Thanos, Andhaka saw himself as a necessary force of change, willing to eliminate obstacles — including the Creator (Shiva) — to establish a new order.

Even the character Kylo Ren is another Dhanistha archetype, being played by the Dhanistha Ascendant native Adam Driver. Kylo has a vision of a new order, which is not just about destroying the past, but reshaping the galaxy according to his own ideals.

His intensely ambitious and destructive qualities, but also his capacity for transformation, signify the Mars influence. This being a tamasic nakshatra means that it thrives on intensity, chaos, destruction, and rebirth, reflecting his volatility & his drive to tear down the past to build something new (we also see his rise to power when he seizes control of the First Order after killing Snoke, wanting to be his own master rather than to continue to serve a higher authority. Though Dhanistha instills servitude, there's still potential for aggressive rebellion, as this nakshatra reflects self-empowerment — however extreme it may manifest).

Unfortunately, we have seen this mindset, in real time, with world leaders who forced a new order in their own country which essentially became a threat to everyone but them.

Donald Trump, who has Mrigashira Sun, easily comes to mind. Vladimir Putin, who Donald Trump now wants to take after, could have possible Chitra ASC. Xi Jinping also has Mrigashira Sun. And Adolf Hitler, who had a lot of Mars influence, with Chitra ASC and Ashwini Sun conjunct Mars. Even Benjamin Netanyahu, leading genocide for his fascist visions, has Chitra Sun & Moon. Regardless of all of their different ideals, they are examples of Mars functioning not only as a destabilizing force, but as a domineering one too. It needs submission. And so Martians will always have minions and enablers.

Again, Ashwini is Mars energy at its highest levels due to the nodal influence. And according to Claire Nakti, in her Serial Killer exploration, she states that whatever Ketu is conjunct, the themes of that planet become exaggerated or extreme — due to its sucking receptivity; further giving a perspective on Mars and Ketu energies together — which are both tamasic.

Similarly to Andhaka, Ultron, in his pursuit of ultimate evolution, had a plan to replace flawed organic life with a machine-driven future, much like Andhaka's attempt to overthrow divine order with his newfound strength. Both the mythology and Ultron's story arc portray Mars as an agent of transformation, however destructive it is, in them commanding armies and defying all limitations. Mars breaks barriers, in the first place.

This also means that Mars is a symbol of resistance, rebellion and growth as well. The character Katniss Everdeen, played by Mrigashira Moon native Jennifer Lawrence, in The Hunger Games sequel, stands against an oppressive, totalitarian government — her defiance sparking a revolution which threatens to dismantle the system and ultimately break all barriers to force freedom to all.

This is quite reminiscent of the character Curtis Everett, in the film Snowpiercer, who is played by Mrigashira Sun native Chris Evans. Curtis has held deep resentment for the Wilford's corrupt leadership (basically the elite people) and he is determined to lead a revolt against the elite of the front of the train. Another layer which highlights this character as Martian is his engagement in the horrible violence and chaos that ensues. The film is directed by Chitra Moon native Bong Joon Ho.

Violence is used as an equalizing force, since Mars does not moralize and acts on necessity instead. Counter-violence, in some of these films led by Martian natives, is done to balance power structures, rather than cause annihilation. Violence -> restoration.

Mars, being the warrior archetype, embodies the natural response to oppression with absolute force. So such influence will be often seen in strong, revolutionary leaders — even if they do not outright promote violence as a first resort, you will sense their Martian power. Such as the Ashwini Moon native Malcolm X, who strongly believed in self-defense, criticizing passive resistance.

Assata Shakur has Mrigashira Moon.

It is fascinating that Kendrick Lamar, and Tupac Shakur, are considered revolutionary thinkers — both having implemented messages of resistance with their mainstream appeal. Mrigashira Sun, Chitra ASC Kendrick Lamar especially with his aggressive delivery in his album To Pimp a Butterfly, and Mrigashira Sun native Tupac Shakur whose tracks ranged from introspective/political to raw street anthems.

The restless energy in all Mars nakshatras is already responsible for pushing one forward, even to the extremes, to initiate or force change; this being something clearly seen in breaking boundaries or challenging the status quo. Mrigashira’s association with breaking free is rooted in its dual focus on exploration/seeking and self-liberation/evolution, exactly why stagnancy or oppression cannot be allowed any longer — making this a very rebellious nakshatra. This notion of Mars seeking to transcend stagnancy can extend in other themes. This restlessness is seen through sexual impulses in the Netflix series Sex/Life.

As it is known, Mars in your chart governs one's sex drive and desires. This fiery planet represents passion and attraction. Mars governs primal urges, which include carnal desire, which can be so transformative for the native — similar to the act of violence to restore balance. According to certain Puranic folklore, when Mangala (Mars) sought a consort, he was rejected by various goddesses due to his raw heat. In the series Sex/Life, Billie's primal urges are so fiery and even animalistic that the energy scares her. But she eventually has to embrace that other identity, as Mars deals with raw empowerment. Exactly why natives with this influence quite literally exude sexuality and vitality, which explains why they become sex symbols in the first place.

But Mars, as it carries tamasic and primal energy in its influence, can make people the most evil, violent and domineering if such energy is not used constructively.

For healthier examples of Mars energy being used constructively, we can look at the film Pump Up the Volume (1990). It stars Chitra Moon Christian Slater, whose character agitates and stirs hidden impulses within the collective, bringing forth suppressed frustrations to the surface through his pirate radio station which gains a large following. His ability to ignite rawness in his listeners, encourage rebellion and self-expression, is something so very Martian. Much like Ketu, Mars can have an intense, subconscious effect on the collective – forcing people to deal with their animalistic nature in an authentic way. Christian Slater's character in Pump Up the Volume becomes the catalyst for unpredictable, at times destructive, reactions — which actually inspire growth more than anything. This film also inspired the Disney movie Radio Rebel (2012), with a similar plot, in which Dhanistha Moon Debby Ryan's character sparks a movement amongst her peers and challenges authority. This theme of being a total disruptor of the status quo or encouraging freedom from restrictive rules is a key element in all Mars influences.

So, the core themes of all of these Mars nakshatras are self-assertion and authenticity, which indicates what is supposed to be cultivated with balancing passion and refinement (Mars pushes for transformation, after all).

This being the planet of raw energy, of impulsive action, and extreme rebellion, can reflect themes of needed chaos and animalistic drive. Both of these movies show the Martian influence behind the incite of radical shifts, often seen in controversy and the destabilization of institutions etc. You will also notice how Mercury nakshatras almost function similarly, especially Revati, the nakshatra of peak expansion, which eliminates all barriers (such as the movie V for Vendetta which is about anarchy). This further supports the constant duo between Mars and Mercury nakshatras.

Mars being the literal planet of war, survival, and primal instinct is translated repeatedly in films about lawlessness, violent anarchy, or rebellion, where the main character, usually a Mars nakshatra native, is able to survive using brute force and wit against outward violence & chaos.

The explosive expression of Mars is so perfectly depicted in the movie Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), directed by Chitra Moon native George Miller.

The film's primal core is survival of the fittest, implementing relentless energy in pursuit of the War Rig. And the character Max, played by Chitra Moon native Tom Hardy, represents the perseverance of Mars, able to navigate the chaos & lawlessness with pure instinct and wit — a trait common in all Mars nakshatras as they possess a level of high intelligence.

The plot of the film also includes a violent rebellion against the tyrannical warlord, and the rich cinematography supports the blend of the explosive, fiery nature of Chitra through its artistic genius. George Miller has definitely succeeded in executing his vision, as this nakshatra grants one the ability to express their grand ideas — the Mars rulership giving the native a higher success rate.

Mars nakshatra natives operating as visionaries who are, at times, self-absorbed, or even extremist, definitely points to the urgency and energetic drive which is provided by Mars. And the ability to even dream or think big is provided by the Venus and Mercury influence. The character JD from Heathers is certainly a terrible manifestation of the selfish visionary.

Jason Dean’s need to remake the world (even if it's through mass suicide) and his desire to tear down the oppressive social system in Heathers ties well into the visionary nature of Chitra. He wants to create a "better" world by destroying the old, his motivation making him parallel characters such as Kylo Ren, or even Ultron, in that sense.

As I've spoken of Kakegurui before (the anime & Japanese live-action), I've highlighted Mary Saotome as Martian as she has been portrayed by the Dhanistha natives, Aoi Morikawa & Minami Tanaka. Mary is the typical queen-bee of the school, caring only about maintaining her dominance over others. But then she falls from grace, and she experiences the harsh reality of being at the bottom of the hierarchy.

However, instead of aiming to overthrow the elite system altogether, the powerlessness she feels from being at the bottom fuels her desire to climb back up the ranks and reclaim her dominance. Usually, once the Martian has gotten some taste of power, they're unwilling to let it go. That's why you get these dualistic themes, as someone like Mary Saotome upholds hierarchal systems while someone like Jason Dean wants to destroy them. But, this may also speak to the difference between Dhanishta nakshatra and the earlier Mars nakshatras.

Dhanishta's purpose is to give one the ability to be on top of any hierarchy, which is exactly why its natives can be extremely gifted or resourceful in many things. Dhanistha would be the Mars nakshatra that is likelier to be the non-disruptor, keeping a harmonious nature within society than challenge or rebel against it for radical change, given that this nakshatra is more focused on discipline and gaining power within restrictions (and that is completely due to its Saturn rulership, making it more passive and self-controlled than its prior trine nakshatras).

So the character Mary Saotome is more calculated than violent, as her goal is not to abolish the oppressive system, but to reclaim power within it.

Kylo Ren is similar to Mary Saotome in this regard, as his goal is not to destroy the system, but to seize control of it. He doesn't care about dismantling the Sith or the First Order — he wants to rule over it. Rather than abolishing it, he embraces the Sith-Imperial power structure and works to remake it under his rule. He manipulates, schemes and positions himself to gain power, very similar to Loki, who is played by Dhanistha Sun Tom Hiddleston. Just like Loki, Kylo also has a deep need for validation and power.

Both Jason Dean and Kylo Ren are both driven by anger, rebellion, and a desire to break free from the system — but on their own terms. Though JD believes in destruction, Kylo believes in power. These Martian natives have a singular vision which they spend the majority of the time trying to make a reality. Both of them fall in love, or form an intense connection, with a Mercury nakshatra native who start off idealistic and resistant to the Martian's radical, destructive methods. Rey is played by Revati Sun Daisy Ridley and Veronica Sawyer is played by the Jyestha Ascendant native Winona Ryder. Both Rey and Veronica are challenged to join the dark side with their Martian counterparts, as JD wants Veronica to embrace the chaos and destruction with him, while Kylo wants Rey to rule alongside him.

The very reason why these Mercury nakshatra natives find themselves in an interplay with Mars nakshatra natives is because of their similarities. Rey grew up abandoned and powerless, resenting the idea that worth and power was only reserved for certain bloodlines — typical of Revati nakshatra as it symbolizes the search for belonging and completion (she didn’t fit anywhere in any hierarchy, as she floated between worlds; which supports the purpose of this nakshatra to transcend beyond the material <hence why it's called the Wealthy Star, regardless of humble beginnings>, as Revati is ruled by Pushan, the shepherd deity who guides lost souls). And when Kylo voices her frustration, saying to her, "You have no place in this story," this validates her anger and loneliness, as he, too, rejects the rigid power structures that tried to control him. While Veronica despises the toxic social order of her school, where the Heathers dominate, and cruelty is rewarded (her ability to see through the illusions of popularity & power without getting sucked into the superficiality reflects Jyestha’s sharp awareness & strong resilience). JD's desire to burn it all down initially excites Veronica, only to then scare her away because his destructive, power-driven acts make him no different to the tyrants she wanted nothing to do with in the first place.

To the theme of lawlessness, the film The Purge (2013), quickly comes to mind. It is directed by James DeMonaco, who has his Sun and Moon in Chitra nakshatra, about the institutional breakdown of a government which legalizes crime for one night, encouraging unrestrained Mars energy at its purest.

The film Escape from New York (1981) also has an aspect of lawlessness to it, as New York City is basically a prison to the most dangerous inmates ever — making it a chaotic jungle. It stars Mrigashira ASC native Kurt Russell who plays the character Snake Plissken. He embodies the combination of Mars and Gemini energy, always having a strategy and being constantly on the move. And like a Martian native, he questions authority and doesn't follow orders blindly, having a rebellious edge to him. His survivalist mentality reflects Mrigashira being a nakshatra of searching and surviving, giving one the ability to thrive in dangerous environments (the nakshatra being symbolized by the deer further signifies alertness and perception).

Martians also falling into warrior archetypes is the least surprising, and it's interesting that they are intuitively cast in huntress roles as well. Mrigashira is linked to tracking, making sense of the obvious connections to the genre of bounty hunting. This nakshatra literally embodies the mindset of a seeker, and due to the Mars influence, extends further to the mind of a huntress. Bounty hunters rely on strategy, intelligence, and tracking abilities to locate fugitives. Mrigashira, being ruled by Soma (Moon), which governs intuition, instinct and adaptability, supports the skillset of the bounty hunter even more.

In the series The Mandalorian, Din Djarin was a bounty hunter who is portrayed by the Mrigashira ASC native Pedro Pascal. In the 1977 film A Man Called Blade, Blade is a hatchet-wielding bounty hunter with a dark past who is played by the Dhanistha Sun & Moon native Maurizio Merli. In Star Wars, Boba Fett is regarded as one of the most fearsome and capable bounty hunters, and he was played by Dhanistha Sun Jeremy Bulloch.

The Mars nakshatras being in both Earth and Air rashi sections points to the importance of structure vs fluidity, suggesting that Mars is mastering both the physical and mental battlefields. The whole mastermind archetype perfectly aligns with these nakshatras, specifically Mrigashira, the nakshatra of the eternal quest for knowledge.

The strategy of Mars, the creativity of Venus (Libra/Taurus), and the craftiness of Mercury (Gemini/Virgo), can make for a theatrical trickster, instigator or mastermind, as seen with the character the Riddler.

As Mars is associated with the head, since it is co-ruling Aries (and the head is more emphasized in Ashwini nakshatra, symbolized by a horse's head which signifies qualities of swiftness such as quick wit); this means that Mars drives intellect, providing one the energy to slice through life with strategy and dominance with accumulated knowledge to defeat opponents, giving one the gift in noticing details that nobody else would (this ability often arises when an individual is on survival-mode, further showing how Mars, being associated with survival of the fittest, makes its natives have a keen sense of awareness). This is exactly why Mars nakshatras are often found in medias that have to do with solving mysteries.

Miss Marple is literally the original female detective. She is an elderly amateur, consulting detective who has been prominently played by Mars nakshatra natives. Throughout many film adaptions, she has been portrayed by the following actresses; Chitra ASC Gracie Fields, Chitra Suns Angela Lansbury and Helen Hayes, Chitra Moon Geraldine McEwan, Dhanistha Moon Joan Hickson, Dhanistha Sun Julia McKenzie. In the series DI Ray, Chitra Moon Parminder Nagra plays a Birmingham-based detective. In the series The Fall, Dhanistha Moon Gillian Anderson is a sharp, determined detective. It reminds me of the relentless detective in the Spanish series Berlin, played by Dhanistha Sun & Moon native Najwa Nimri. Though you'll see Ketu nakshatra natives take up this genre as well, it seems to be dominated by Mars influence. In the film Silence of the Lambs, Magha Moon Jodie Foster plays detective Sterling who is the fixation of a terrifying serial killer; in Hannibal, Jodie Foster is replaced by the Mrigashira Moon & ASC native Julianne Moore, continuing the story as detective Sterling who finds herself in what you'd consider a dark romance, or game of prey-&-predator, with Hannibal (which has to do with Mrigashira nakshatra, in general, more than it just being a Mars nakshatra).

So high IQ, beauty, mass appeal, and dominance can be a full package when it comes to Mars nakshatras. Each Mars nakshatra may provide one with a gift to expand one into elite rooms or into higher positions of power.

Dhanishta nakshatra possesses Khyapayitri Shakti, which is the power to bring fame and abundance. Mrigashira nakshatra, with its seeking nature, is powered by Prinana Shakti, which gives fulfillment. Chitra nakshatra, ruled by Tvashtar, who is the cosmic craftsman, has the ability to accumulate good merit in life from being powered by the Punya Chayani Shakti.

As Dhanistha is associated with rhythm & performance, Mrigashira being partially ruled by Venus, and Chitra's deity, Tvashtar, being the god of artisans and fashioning, it comes as no surprise that these nakshatras are prominently found in the art, entertainment, and fashion industry or in celebrity culture in general. Often the faces of the glitz and glamour.

Chitra especially, since it signifies beauty, meticulousness and expressing imagination on the material plane. Chitra is literally the nakshatra of the visionary.

The Disney princesses I'd confidently associate with Chitra are Moana and Ariel. As this nakshatra is symbolized by the pearl, it points to the pursuit of brilliance. And like the pearl hidden in the ocean, their path involves venturing the unknown, seeking newfound radiance or, similar to Mrigashira, finally capturing the higher power they've always been seeking — showing just how these natives are deeply aligned to fate. Mars provides these characters with enough enthusiasm and restlessness to fulfill that destiny.

Mrigashira, Chitra, and Dhanistha each embody core themes which have to do with the relentless pursuit of fulfilment, whether it be alignment with one's true identity (such as through Mrigashira's trope of memory loss, or Rapunzel retracing her true roots), or knowledge, mastery, status/validation, or freedom. All three nakshatras make individuals challenge their own limitations, as they are a force of growth themselves. This falls perfectly well into the warrior archetype which defies hierarchy and reshapes their reality through strategy, ambition, rebellion, and even violence.

All of this just to say, they have the power of INFLUENCE and IMMENSE GROWTH.

[clairewritesfanfics]

Hello and good morning/afternoon or evening wherever you are. I hope this isn’t a bother but can we have a doctor strange! Reader having to take down interdimensional threats like angstrom and mark variants before the time stream collapses ( kinda like spiderman long way from home. I love your work!)

A wise woman once said, “For a genius, nothing is more precious than failure.” 

For a doctor, there is no such thing as perfection–that’s why they call it “practicing medicine,” because there is always more to learn and there will always be something to improve.

Sadly, you were no longer a surgeon. Magic is the source of miracles, but even it is bound by destiny, and destiny states that you were meant to serve the world outside the operating room. Outside the realm considered “normal.” 

Being Sorcerer Supreme wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Sure, you could turn bullets into butterflies at the flick of a wrist, and yes, it’s nice being able to go anywhere without having to wait for the bus or sit still in an airplane next to a crying baby.

You prevented evil wizards from taking over the spirit and mortal world, stopped the sun from becoming a black hole more times than you can count, and outsmarted an interdimensional Eldritch abomination–

Blah blah blah. 

You missed the good old days, when you were just a student at the bottom of the food chain, when there was more to study, more to explore, more to learn. 

Humans are privileged in not having enough time to learn everything all at once. You were an unfortunate exception. With your astral projection, sleep was no longer something you worried about; while your physical form recuperated, your soul would devour all the books and ancient scriptures available. But now? You knew everything. Time is the enemy for mortal scholars, but what happens when time becomes your slave? 

The time stone has long been lost, but during the brief moments you had it, you bore witness to every branch from the tree of fate. Every probability, every parallel universe blooming with every choice made by everything and everyone in existence.

In one of those blossoms, a man named Angstrom Levy saw but a tiny fraction of eternity, and thought that he alone had unlocked the secret of the universe.

“Little fool,” you said, voice cold. 

He struggled against your binding spell but the golden strings around his neck, waist and limbs tightened in response.

“Don’t waste brain power trying to escape.” The spell that kept him in place also cut off the source of his teleportation. 

When he finally realized that there was no flaw to exploit in your ropes, he breathed out an angry “Who are you?” 

“Wow, you really tried to take over the multiverse without even knowing who I am? Very well–” You flipped your cape. “You are one of the chosen few to meet me in person. I am the Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts.”

“I have never heard of you.”

You laughed at his cheap attempts to insult you. “That’s all right. I’ve been around for so long that monsters have forgotten to fear me. Soon, you will be joining them.”

“Me? You’re punishing me? What about him–what about them?” He didn’t have to say a name. You knew exactly who he meant. And that person’s alternate selves were likely already killing each other in that wasteland dimension.  

“What about them?”

Angstrom was taken aback by your words. “Mark Grayson is nothing but a pest, a-a-a darkness that ruins everything–”

“Mark Grayson is the sole existence that’s keeping this world and all the other worlds alive.”

He looked at you like you were insane.

“You really don’t know anything, do you?” 

“Know what?”

You placed your palm over his eyes, white light flashing as you force-fed memories into his head. 

Angstrom screamed in agony.

You pulled back. “Now you know the truth.”

“No… it can’t be.”

“You’re supposed to be a smarter man than this, Angstrom, do not deny what has been placed in front of you.”

“No!” He wriggled, the binds suffocated him with each movement. “It can’t be! This world, me and him, you’re telling me… you’re telling me that every bad thing that has happened to us, every single choice we made was meaningless?!”

You shrugged. “I wouldn’t say ‘meaningless.’ You and everyone else here was born for a single purpose–” You smiled and said: “Entertainment.”

Golden threads wrapped around his mouth, stopping him from shouting once again. 

“The gods are cruel, aren’t they?” You whispered. “But there’s not much we can do about that.” 

You waved your hand and he was gone. 

Time to clean up his mess.

You cracked your knuckles and opened the last world he accessed with his powers.

It wasn’t a dying Earth, but a dying universe. Even if they flew out of the Milky Way they won’t be finding anything. 

When you appeared, two of them tried to attack you but your protection spells were quicker. 

“Now gentlemen, there is no need to be rough. I’m here to send you home.”

The Mark draped in black and yellow kept his fist on your shield. “You expect me to believe that? You’re with Angstrom, aren’t you? Where is he? I'm going to kill him!”

You didn’t say anything, merely watched as he tried punching you again. 

Another Mark with a veil joined him.

Idiots.

You snapped your fingers and your shields combined to a giant dome that pushed them back. “I’m not that little red-haired playmate of yours, it’s going to take a lot more than a few hits from a Viltrumite to break down my force fields.”

You waved your arm and they started floating against their will. Even with their smart atoms, they couldn’t fly away. 

The others regarded you with anger and suspicion. 

“Who…what are you?” The Mark wearing Omni-Man’s colors demanded.

“I’m the Sorcerer Supreme.”

There was a beat before he replied, “Who?”

Your eyebrow twitched. “Look, I already dealt with Angstrom, I came here to help you get back to your respective timelines out of the goodness of my heart, mind you.”

“How about you take us to Angstrom and we don’t beat the living shit out of you?” The guy with the awful haircut said.

“I don’t think you want that.”

“I think we do,” said the bald one. 

The Invincible with his whole head covered up stepped forward. “We don’t want to fight, so just surrender.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mohawk snorted. 

“Give up,” Omni-Invincible pointed his finger at you. “You are outnumbered.”

“Oh?” Your cape fluttered behind you. “Well, you are outclassed.” 

To call what happened next a “fight” would be an insult to the word. They fell like flies in a matter of seconds. 

You sent them to their realities and once again, the multiverse was safe from destruction. With a yawn, you went back home and watched a movie. 

A/N: I've never watched the Tom Holland Spiderman films and my knowledge about Dr. Strange is limited, but I didn't want to reject these requests cause they gave me a chance to write an OP reader. Once again, liberties were taken when I made this fic. (Y/n is also lowkey inspired by the unrivaled Madam Herta.)

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[wttcsms]

when you know, you know, atsumu miya ;

pairing atsumu miya x f!reader word count 1k synopsis atsumu considers marriage to be a trap, until he realizes that even a lifetime commitment to you isn't long enough content contains fluff, talks of marriage!!!! he's a softie

It starts off like this: nobody sees Atsumu Miya getting married — not now, not ever, not in the foreseeable future, nor in any of the millions of alternate and parallel universes that may or may not exist.

You’re just not the type of person we see settling down. 

Yeah, that might be true, but it still stings a little. It stings when he sees the white picket fences, and the cars with the MY KID’S AN HONOR STUDENT bumper stickers. It stings when he happens to accidentally catch a rerun of those family-centered sitcoms; the ones where they argue during the day and make up at night, with some cliche moral to the over dramatic situations that have occurred onscreen fifteen minutes ago. It stings when he watches his teammates get engaged and he has to congratulate them — he’s genuinely happy for them, don’t get him wrong — but still… 

It doesn’t matter. Atsumu Miya has long since held the firm belief that he’s just not the type of person the whole “fall in love, get married, have a family, cue the domesticity cuteness overload” schtick is meant for. Besides, it’s not like it’s something he’s spent years obsessing over (maybe months, at most). 

He rationalizes his bachelor status (that’s been a part of him for so long that it’s getting to become somewhat of a red flag for potential girlfriends) as him being the only one left with his priorities straight. After all, he doesn't have to worry about things like parent-teacher conferences or crayon drawings on the wall or trying to buy flowers to make sure the wife isn’t too mad when he comes home late. 

After all, he tells everyone, settling down is still settling. 

And Atsumu Miya, under no circumstances, ever settles.

Which is an ideal he clings to with such a tight grip, if it were flesh and blood, it would be suffocating. He doesn’t, he decides after a while, believe in marriage. 

(That is to say: he doesn’t believe that it’s possible for him. 

It’s not what he says explicitly, but it’s what he truly means.) 

So, when he tells you this on your second date, you’re a little stunned, but you’re quick to recover. Okay… So that’s the explanation you’ve been waiting for. The reason why this six feet two inches tall professional athlete with a bank account he generously withdraws money from has been single for so long is because he doesn’t believe in marriage. 

Other than that, he’s been nothing but great. Near perfect. So, all you do is nod and continue on with the original topic of the conversation. Eventually, your budding romance blooms into something much bigger than either of you ever anticipated or saw coming, and while you yourself have never mentioned the M-word after that date, it’s all Atsumu can think about right now. 

Marriage.

The concept of it looms over your relationship; a perpetual gray cloud that threatens to flood this perfect little relationship and have it all go down the drain. You never brought it up after he basically told you he would never marry anyone, and he never brought it up purely because — well — he’s a bit of a coward. 

He’s the type of person who’s set on his own convictions, by the way. If his balls ever drop, and he decides to Man Up, he figures he’ll start the conversation just like that. His stubbornness is nothing new to you, but him figuring out that he might be wrong makes his stomach feel funny. It’s sick and twisted. 

“Hey, what do you want for dinner tonight? I’m at the store right now, and I’m in the mood to cook.” He can picture it clearly: you, standing in one of the grocery store aisles, phone balanced in between your ear and shoulder as you compare the ingredients of the name brand and generic cereal. 

He’s in the locker room, about to pack up his gym bag (that you’ll complain reeks) and head back to his apartment (that’s starting to feel a lot more like yours, with the way your skincare products dominate the bathroom counter), and it hits him so suddenly, he has to sit back down on the bench. 

Atsumu Miya thinks that marriage isn’t for him, and as a defense mechanism, he decides that marriage sucks anyway. But through the tinny speakers of his phone, he can hear you toss something in the shopping cart. He hears the faint crying of a toddler in the background, and then he starts to think about what it would be like to walk around the store with a baby that takes after you. Right now, you’re already sleeping in the same bed with him at least four times out of the week, but it would be perfect, he thinks, to get the privilege to wake up to you every morning.

“Atsumu?” You try to get his attention, and Atsumu tries to ignore the warm and fuzzy feeling he gets when he considers a future with you. Settling down is still settling, he tells himself, and then he thinks of the way you looked when you caught the bouquet at a friend’s wedding. The pleased smile on your face, the triumphant way you held the flowers over your head, head thrown back in glee; you looked absolutely radiant. You caught his eye, and you quickly lowered your hands, giving him a sheepish grin. 

He realizes now that if anyone is settling, it’s you. You don’t know that he notices the way you tear up at weddings, or how excited you sound when you get back from dress shopping with one of your friends. You want to get married, and the only thing stopping you is him.

He’s spent ages deluding himself into thinking that he’s somehow losing if he decides to trap himself into a marriage with someone, but no one can accuse him of settling when it’s you he’s marrying. You’re the prize. You’re the only person in the world he wants to give his last name and an obnoxiously big ring to. 

“Make whatever you want, baby. I’ll eat anything.” He’s checking the locations for the nearest jewelers in his immediate vicinity. “I might be a little late, though. I have to check on something.” 

[talenlee]

The Parallel Universes of Entry Hazards in Pokemon

Stealth rock.

For the invested competitive Pokemon player, there are two reactions to this name. One group recognise the word as indicative of one of the most powerful things in the game, a single power that represents, unaddressed, something like a whole Pokemon’s worth of actual health for one button click. One group recognises it as a power that exists, and ruins the format the other group play.

It is a philosophical seam between two groups of people who consider themselves to be, as a group, competitive Pokemon players. Two houses, alike only in difference, and I am going to try, to try to be nice to Smogon in this article, I promise.

Alright, the power itself. First of all, Stealth Rock is a move introduced to Pokemon in Generation IV, back in 2007. That is, right now, Stealth Rock is old enough to vote in the United States. This move creates what’s called an ‘entry’ hazard; it’s reasonably easy to grasp, in turn-based game turns; it’s stuff on the ground, so any time a pokemon that touches the ground enters, it gets hit by those rocks. It’s scattering thumbtacks on the ground where you’re supposed to stand and fight. In purely mechanical game-action-make-sensey kind of way, it’s a great power. You have pokemon made of rocks, they can chuck rocks over there, and rely on the long game effecting your opponents.

The amount of damage it does is a ‘fixed’ value – 12.5% at base, but it’s a rock type move, so it’s been set to do ‘rock’ damage, and that means in Pokemon, with the type chart you may remember from previous conversations on the same, anything that is weak to rock damage takes more damage from those rocks. That means that for the types weak to rock, they take 25% damage, which is a pretty significant chunk of your health, especially if you ever have to swap in a second time. And Arceus help you if you’re two types weak to rock, because then you’re taking 50% of your health on the trade-in and definitionally, unless something extraordinary happens, you can’t trade in again.

Now, this is pretty abnormal; there aren’t that many powers that are capable of this kind of impact. But you can weight this value based on how many times someone is going to trade out in a fight, and how important a single turn is going to be spent taking time to throw the rocks on the ground. If, for example, almost nothing is weak to rock moves, then this is an interesting curiosity. Similarly, if this is a move almost no monster that’s any good has access to, then it doesn’t matter how great the move is, you won’t be able to get it onto a team.

In the four categories of ‘weak to Rock’ Pokemon, there are 349 Pokemon, or about a third of all Pokemon. There are some false positives there; after all, in the list of flying types, there are no doubt some flying-grass types, which means they don’t take double damage from Stealth Rock. Similarly, there are a lot of Pokemon in that list that aren’t very good; if you’re super-effective at beating up stupid babies, it doesn’t really mean that much for competitive performance, where you will rarely have a stupid baby matchup. As far as how many Pokemon have access to Stealth Rock, it is a move available to 207 Pokemon, which is to say, about 1/5th of all Pokemon.

It’s widely distributed, and it’s good against a lot of stuff and it’s amazing against a pretty significant fraction of the stuff it’s good against.

How does that take us to our two groups?

First of all, there’s Smogon, the more pertinent of this group. Smogon is an online-based community-driven Pokemon competitive format that has a…

Let’s say complicated history and relationship to legality and formats. Like, for its virtues or its vices, I think it’s reasonable to say that Smogon is complicated. For a start, if you want to, you can go to Smogon’s play spaces and start playing competitive Gen1 Pokemon. That’s Red-Blue-Yellow, and it’ll be divided up into a variety of play environments to, generously, try and maximise the number of Pokemon you can play with. There’s a deliberately archival view of play environments, too, where you can play the game the way it worked all those years ago, and you can keep playing it and changes to it are done slowly and through consensus of the player base.

Smogon plays (typically) matches that are teams of six Pokemon, fighting one-on-one. It is how competitive Pokemon used to be played, back in the day when Hulk Hogan was the referee, and the way the game honestly represents it to be played. Like, in any given Pokemon game, you’re going to fight trainers that show up with some Pokemon in their pocket, and they can have, at most, six, and you can have at most six, and you play back and forth until you win or lose. Smogon can be compared to a sort of pure, real expression of the way the game teaches you to play.

In Smogon, Stealth Rock is the most powerful move in the game. Stealth Rock is important to, central even, every environment it’s in. It is too widely distributed to be conveniently banned except by its actual banning; there is no tier you can go to where stealth rock is not present because there’s always a Pokemon that can use it, and that means there are whole categories of Pokemon, including franchise mascot Charizard that just don’t have a meaningfully good place to exist because of how there’s this one move that’s going to cut their health in half in almost all games. Smogon is so defined by Stealth Rock that an item that makes you immune to Stealth Rock briefly approached 50% usage in the current generation, and this led to claims the item was probably overpowered because everyone was using it.

See, here’s another thing about Smogon. Smogon had to institute a timer that said games can’t go more than 1,000 turns.

That is, there was a time when the timer could go longer than 1,000 turns, and they compromised to 1,000 turns to stop the games going too ridiculously long.

VGC is the alternative format, which is run and maintained by the Pokemon company. It’s the ‘official’ format, and that’s where there are things like regionals and championships and trophies and coverage where you’ll see people at tournaments with overseeing judges and stuff like that. VGC is a comparatively simple format, but it’s also rotating and changing. Any team you made for VGC last year isn’t going to be good any more, because not only are other players more aware of what they’re doing, but also, the Pokemon that were legal for the format then are – well, okay, they’re probably fine, but there are a bunch of Pokemon that you can’t take to the next tournament. These Pokemon aren’t spot bans, they’re not negotiated or responsive to play environments, they’re just wholesale format choices: Pokemon of a particular category aren’t allowed right now, with terms like ‘legendary’ or ‘mythical.’

VGC is a format where games are played with a team of six; but to each fight, you bring four, and they play two-on-two. So you have two on your side of the field and I have two on my side of the field. This format is standard and has been since the year 2008, so one year after the release of Stealth Rock. Two Pokemon on a team can’t share a Pokemon Number (so you can’t, for example, field two Gengars, for double gengar action), no Pokemon on your team can hold the same held item, and they’re all levelled to 50, to sort out the math.

In VGC, Stealth Rock has never been meaningful or relevant.

These two game formats are structurally different. For good or ill, whatever you want to say about how they should work or not, and whether or not you prefer them, these two formats can be considered in terms of how they relate to this one specific move.

VGC matches are faster and shorter. They aren’t timed by a number of rounds necessarily but they are just assigned an actual clock timer, complete with time spent thinking. VGC swaps are less common but also matches are just plain out shorter. If you trade, there are two Pokemon in position to punch you in the face, and you get this thing called being ‘doubled into’ where two Pokemon attack one Pokemon and probably do too much damage for it to handle. You don’t swap Pokemon in and out as much, and Stealth Rock necessarily just doesn’t get to do that much damage.

Smogon is a format where games are longer and more grindy and that means that Pokemon swap in and out way more often. Abilities that make trading out better or refresh your endurance are more important and there are a number of teams where players spend about half the time not using moves, but instead swapping out. I am not trying to make fun here, I am not trying to exaggerate for effect, I trying to be clear and fair about this: Smogon is a place where everything Stealth Rock effects is important, and that means ‘weak to Stealth Rock’ is an almighty hurdle for a Pokemon to overcome to be able to do anything competitively.

Now, whether or not this is good is not important. What’s interesting here is how these two choices create different incentives and different values for the same pieces. Smogon is a format where games can run very long, VGC where they can be forced to a real-world timer for a large tournament.

But don’t worry, Charizard isn’t very good in either.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[licorice-tea]

Could I Be Loved By You?

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x reader, Roronoa Zoro x reader, Trafalgar Law x reader (separate)

Content: pure fluff<3

Word Count: 0.7k (total)

A/N: short head cannons are something i haven’t really written before, so i hope these are still good! im in class rn but i got bored so i just finished writing sanji’s lmao- please enjoy! :)

Part 2

What happens when you ask them; “Do you think we’re together in every universe?”

Vinsmoke Sanji - 0.2k

“Sanji, sweetheart-“

“Yes, love?”

You smile softly at him before continuing. “Do you think we’d be together in every universe?”

Sanji doesn't even take a moment to consider his answer- he simply blurts out; “Yes. Always.”

A giggle escapes your lips, which come to press a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t know what other answer I could have expected from you.”

“I have more to say, if you'd like to hear it of course.”

“Mhm.” You nod.

Sanji clears his throat with a flourish, as if he's about to present some grandeur speech. “You are the love of my life- and of all my lives. Without getting to love you and be loved by you, I don’t think I’d be able to go on. So, naturally, we would be together in every universe. If not; it must be a world where I don’t exist.” Then, he takes your hands in his. “My love, I’d be yours in any universe you’d have me in.”

Your gentle smile grows into a full blown grin and, naturally, your lips are drawn to his.

Roronoa Zoro - 0.2k

“Do you think we’re together in every universe, Zoro?”

He shrugs, and starts fiddling with his swords. They lean against the same wall that the two of you are sitting on, his legs crossed around the spot where they hit the floor and yours pressed up against your chest.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re together here.”

You simply hum in response. It was unreasonable to except something poetic from him in the first place.

“But I hope we are.”

At this, your ears perk up. You turn to face him with wide eyes.

“I just mean… I hope I’ve done enough to deserve you in other lifetimes.”

The corners of your lips quirk up in a smile, and your arms encircle his much larger and more solid one. “You do more than enough in this one. Don’t worry about that.”

Zoro smiles too- not only at your words, but the tickle of your breath against his neck when you speak.

He really doesn’t care to imagine other universes- not when a mere moment with you is enough to take up all the space in his mind for hours on end- but Zoro will still always indulge your whims.

Trafalgar Law - 0.3k

“Law.”

He looks up from his book at your urgent tone. “Yes?”

“Do you think we’re together in every universe?”

He scoffs. “Yeah, of course.”

You tilt your head, silently urging him to continue. He doesn’t though- and he won’t indulge your curiosity without verbal reassurance. So, you give in.

“Why? I was expecting a full thesis with supporting evidence from you, smartass.”

Law shuts his book. “Ahem; Then, I believe that we would be together in every universe because… well, we’re together now. It’s the natural order of things, so why would that change in a supposed parallel universe?”

He’s such a nerd. You want to kiss him.

But instead, you just shrug. “Things happen.”

“Then I’d like to think that our relationship is still a constant.” He finishes off the topic with that. What reason could you have for wondering if you would still love each other in other universes, anyway? The answer is so glaringly obvious- to him, at least. He continues, this time teasing you. “Now, did you have a genuine question, or are we just proposing hypotheticals tonight?” Law smirks at you, but his cheeks are growing pinker by the second. It’s a futile attempt to cover how endearing he finds the thought.

With a satisfied shake of your head, you turn on your heel. “Nope! That was all.” And when you reach the hall outside his office, you poke your head back in. “Love you!”

Law pulls his hat down further, props his book up higher, and sinks into his chair. His voice is a quiet mumble as he returns the sentiment. “Love you too.” Which, he really does; he’s just a little shy.

[anneangel]

Is Aziracrow Canon?

The weirdest thing is that at the end of the book/and Show S1, we know that Adam has changed elements of reality (there are books in Aziraphale's bookshop that weren't there before, for example), so it seems like Adam has rearranged some things differently. Before the nightingale sings, we are told:

“They went to the Ritz again, where a table was mysteriously vacant. And perhaps the recent exertions had had some fallout in the nature of reality because, while they were eating, for the first time ever, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square…”.

That is, it could be that Adam, upon seeing Crowley and Aziraphale, rearranged the universe so that something more romantic could blossom more evidently between Crowley and Aziraphale. But this cannot in any way be used to say that they were not in love before, since Adam looked deeply at both of them, back at the air base, and Crowley thought:

“Adam turned and appeared to notice them for the first time. Crowley was not used to people identifying him so readily, but Adam stared at him as though Crowley's entire life history was pasted inside the back of his skull and he, Adam, was reading it. For an instant he knew real terror. He'd always thought the sort he'd felt before was the genuine article, but that was mere abject fear beside this new sensation. Those Below could make you cease to exist by, well, hurting you in unbearable amounts, but this boy could not only make you cease to exist merely by thinking about it, but probably could arrange matters so that you never had existed at all”.

And, then, Adam said to Crowley and Aziraphale too: “"I don't think you need to go worryin'," said Adam gnomically. "I know all about you two. Don't you worry".”

It is also impossible to say that A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square is not an implicit/subtext reference to Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship, since the lyrics make very precise references to elements of the book/show, so it is to be assumed that the song was placed in Aziraphale and Crowley final arc, on book, specifically, and also on purpose.

The show uses the same principle; in the series, the song "Bicycle Race" plays very literally when they run over Anathema, as well as playing "I'm In Love With My Car" very literally in relation to Crowley and his car, so I must assume that it was also literal when they played "You're My Best Friend" when Crowley was going to Aziraphale's bookshop (p.s; this song was written by Queen's bassist, John Deacon, for his best friend, better known as HIS WIFE).

Aside from another curious fact, there is a correlation between the couples in this plot; Anathema & Newt, Tracy & Shadwell, and Crowley & Aziraphale, they all have something in common:

(1) Each of them has their own arcs to finish their plots;

(2) their arc is closed in duos, they are considered as couples and their arcs are closed together ("Anathema & Newt", "Crowley & Aziraphale", and "Tracy & Shadwell", respectively according to the final arcs in the book);

(3) they all had everything to hate each other, Anathema was a witch, and Newt was a witchhunter (apart from the fact that his ancestor killed her ancestor), Shadwell cursed Tracy all time, and called her a Jezebel (as if it were the most unlikely thing for someone like him not to repudiate someone like her), as well as Crowley is a demon and Aziraphale is an angel (which should make them enemies), but in the end all these characters end up together and on good terms;

(4) They all end the plot as a couple, although it seems that with Anathema and Newt and Shadwell and Tracy this is more explicit, while with Crowley and Aziraphale, it is more implicit (So you see, the exposition of Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship using the plot of other couples to show the parallels didn't start in the second season through Maggie and Nina, but this has already been noticeable since the book);

(5) If you stop to think about it for a moment, even Adam's final arc (which is the last arc of the book) is a love story, but here it's a story of his love in relation to the world he lives in and how much he's willing to appreciate it.

It is also important to remember that, although I am equating Crowley and Aziraphale with the other humans in this plot, we should not take this too seriously because they are, in fact, mythical creatures (occult/ethereal) and not really human.

They can mimetically simulate some human behaviors (like breathing, the book emphasizes several times that they don't even need to do that, but they do it anyway), so they simulate human behavior when they want to, but that doesn't mean they do it completely (for example, Az can eat, but never needs to use the bathroom, both can drink, but don't detox the same way we do, Crowley can sleep, but for an extensively longer period of time than a human being). The point is, they can adopt some human behavior, but they will adapt it to their own way and preferences.

So we could say that they are a couple, but is not the same as we do as "couple” as human, they are a couple whatever that means to them and how they adapt that to their way of existing.

This is why humans mistake them as a couple at various points in the book (Shadwell and Anathema, for example), but the truth is that humans translate Aziracrow relationship into human aspects, the behavior they exhibit within the human aspect is similar to that of what we call a “couple”, that’s why they seem like a couple for us. But, for real, whatever they are to themselves, it is, in fact, ineffable. Although this is, undoubtedly, a love story.

Are they LGBTQIA+ representations?

Short answer: yes and no.

Long answer:

In Good Omens there is a certain "homoerotic subtext", although calling Crowley and Aziraphale homosexual is not correct for two reasons (1) angels and demons do not have genitalia/sex “unless they make an effort,” that is, unless they perform a "miracle" to have one. (2) The book also states that Crowley and Aziraphale are NOT men, but rather "beings who are in the form of men". They are, at the very least, non-binary shapeshifters. (...)

Like: this assumes that they can change from "male form" to other forms if they want with some "effort"/miracle (which is especially true in Crowley's case, since "he/them" was able to change and become the nanny Asthoreth of "his/them" own free will, all indications being that Crowley was a woman during the period she was Warlock's nanny, as well as "he/them" was once the snake in the Garden of Eden, and there is a scene where "he/them" turns into a monster to scare a human, in the paintball scene. In other words, Crowley can, in fact, assume many forms, and, as an being, Crowley is genderfluid). We haven't seen Aziraphale do the same, but the plot suggests that he can too. (...)

There's also the fact that Aziraphale looks, in the words of the text itself, "he was gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide". Which is a type of gas called colorless gas that causes a feeling of euphoria and laughter when inhaled, hence the name "laughing gas". Basically, people think Aziraphale is gay because he looks so much "flashy and cheerful". And this is evident, since not only Shadwell, but a child at Warlock's party calls Aziraphale “a faggot”. Furthermore, Aziraphale himself has no problem being called a “faggot”, as seen in the scene where Shadwell calls him pansy, and he responds "THE Southern pansy".

There is also the fact that “Aziraphale had learned to gavotte in a discreet gentlemen's club in Portland Place in the late 1880”, the name; “The Hundred Guineas Club”, The Hundred Guineas Club was an exclusive and expensive club in London known for being a space where gay men could gather and feel safe.

Other thing, Crowley calls Aziraphale "Angel". Aziraphale is literally an angel, but not everyone knows that, so some people think that when he says that he means something different, since it is entirely possible that Crowley knows very well what he is doing when he calls Aziraphale an "angel" in front of people, after all can assume that people will not assume that it is because Aziraphale is a real angel and will instead interpret it as a term of endearment.

Furthermore, some characters throughout the narrative think they are a couple.

(1) Anathema thinks they are a couple after hearing Crowley call Aziraphale "Angel". Later, she thinks of them as the "two consenting cycle repairmen" making a reference to the decriminalization of homosexuality in UK that was only for "consenting adults", that is, she used English slang to say that she believed they were a couple.

When Satan is about to break through the Earth's crust, Crowley and Aziraphale think they are going to die, and they say goodbye to each other in a polite and cute way. In this scene, (2) Shadwell refers to Aziraphale and Crowley as ‘Southern pansies’.

There are many other references that I certainly missed, but other fans can add.

So, as seen, even though Aziraphale and Crowley can't really be classified according to human standards, neither of them seems bothered about being included in the LGBTQIA+ community, they never make any 'effort' to deny. This is obviously intentional in the narrative, although it is not explicit.

So, no, they are not an LGBTQIA+ representation in the strict term, as they are not human. But, on the other hand, they are an LGBTQIA+ representation, as they don't mind being part of it, and the book/show expresses that.

[astroboots]

Every You Every Me | Issue #7

COLLABORATED WITH @thirstworldproblemss

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You finally get some answers out of Miguel about who you are to him.

Word count: 5,700 words.

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

"So let's take it from the top," you tell him, as you sit down and put down the Trenta-sized caramel flavored hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and chocolate syrup in front of the man named Miguel O'Hara.

The two of you are sitting across from each other at a small booth at the nearest Starbucks you were able to find, seeing as you're homeless now, and there's nowhere else you could think of to go.

He's dressed in a large fitted hoodie that drapes down to his thighs. Where he's managed to find something that is oversized in length on him, you don't know because he's not exactly short.

"I'm from a dimension known as Earth-928," Miguel says.

Before he can continue, you raise one hand, and you can see his right eyebrow twitch unhappily at the interruption. 

"Yes?"

"Just to clarify, so we don't have another ‘coffee cake’ misunderstanding. When you say Earth-928, do you mean a different version of the Earth we’re on now? Or is this a habitable planet in another galaxy that happens to be partially named Earth?"

"It's a parallel universe characterized by distinct physical parameters and initial conditions, accounting for the diverse manifestations of our observable universe. So still Earth," he says, sweeping his gaze across the café, nose wrinkling the way one does when there's something off-putting in their vicinity. "Just a little bit less primitive."

Of course he would say that, wouldn't be able to resist the jab would he.

You peer up at him across the table. He is very technical and thorough with his explanations. But as grateful as you are for him finally being willing to answer your questions, you hadn't expected those answers to be quite so information dense. You need to pick your questions more carefully or you are going to have to go down the street to buy yourself a notebook in order to keep up.

"How did you end up on this Earth?" you ask.

"Where I'm from, I'm a scientist, a researcher. One of the things I studied was the theory of physical cosmology and the existence of the multiverse. My work was concentrated on the theoretical ability to navigate between distinct universes within a hypothetical multiverse–”

Ah shit, you should've been more narrow in your question. Should have asked him to simplify it a bit more for you. Because now you're sitting here blinking up at him, pretending you understand half of what he's saying. 

It makes sense that he’s STEM. He speaks like the type. Smart as hell with none of the social skills to gauge whether the other person is following the conversation. 

Listening to him reminds you of that time in college, when you'd walked into the wrong lecture hall, wound up in advanced chemistry instead of your math class, felt too awkward to leave and just sat there drawing doodles with an attentive expression until the class was over. 

And he’s still at it, “– employing advanced mechanisms that manipulate or transcend conventional spacetime frameworks, enabling exploration–"

"Okay, wait, hold on a sec," you interrupt, once it becomes obvious he’s not going to stop any time soon on his own. "Can you... simplify, please?"

He stops mid-sentence, taking a deep breath as he looks up at the ceiling and considers your request, with a serious expression as if he's thinking really hard on it. "I’m a scientist. I study the multiverse. I built a parallel universe traversal device, it allows me to visit different dimensions." Your brain feels insulted that it clearly took more mental effort for him to dumb it down for you than to just give the supergenius version.

“So… a machine that allows you to jump between alternative universes?” 

“Yes.” 

There’s a pause between you as you run through the questions in your mental list you want to tick off now that he’s turned cooperative and talkative. But with everything that’s happened in the last handful of hours, a lot of the questions you previously had seemed outdated. The one question, the most important one, you’ve wanted to ask from the start though remains. 

"Who am I to you?"

Miguel takes the large sized drink in his even larger hands and somehow this big paper cup still manages to look tiny in his grip. "You and I were... involved," he says.

You frown. ‘Involved’ is such a vague term. It belongs in the trash with other useless terms to describe relationships: “situationship”, “complicated”, you hate them all. 

"So I was your girlfriend?"

"Yeah, something like that," he concede, fidgeting with the thin gold chain looped around his neck, his eyes not quite meeting yours, like he's embarrassed to use the term.

‘Something like that,’ you chew on his answer unhappily, sympathizing with your other dimensional self and how the other you seemed to have snagged a commitment phobe. 

Other-you, who isn’t here in this dimension with Miguel. You wonder why that is. 

"What happened to me?" you ask.

His eyes are glued to the table,  not looking up at you as he answers you in a voice so quiet you can barely hear it. "She died."

"Oh."

The revelation shouldn’t take you by surprise. 

Every time Miguel’s brought up your other self, it’s been tinted with earth-shattering sadness. It's not hard to put one and one together and come to the conclusion that whatever happened to you in this other dimension didn't end happily.

Still it's an odd feeling to know that out there, somewhere, a version of you has died. A version of you that was clearly very important to the man in front of you.

"I'm sorry," you tell him.

It feels silly to say. It's bizarre to give your condolences over your own parallel death, but Miguel looks so heartbroken. He’s slumped in his seat, large shoulders rounded until his frame looks so much smaller than you're used to, and you don't know what else to do.

"So what is happening to me now," you start, not sure how to word what the phenomena that you're going through is, "these continuous near-death experiences, is that how she died?"

"Yeah."

"And do you know why that... kept happening to her? Why is it happening to me?"

"I don't, and I don't know how to stop it. Believe me I tried."

He cradles the paper cup in his hands, the grip a little bit tighter now until he's creasing the paper and the caramel liquid oozes and leaks from the top.

"What I do know is that the universe isn’t going to stop trying to kill you, no matter what you do. And with every near death incident you manage to survive, these incidents will escalate in nature, until..." he stops, eyes flickering away from the cup to meet yours, but it's like he loses courage and doesn't want to say the last part.

"Until, what?" you prompt.

"Until your dimension collapses."

The blood freezes in your veins. "Wait, collapses!? What do you mean?"

"I can't guarantee it will happen again. But that's what happened last time. When the other you kept cheating death, the universe eventually started to collapse in on itself."

You slump back in your chair, trying to process what you've just been told. What does that mean? That even if you managed to defy all odds to survive, doing so would doom the rest of this universe as you know it?

"When will that happen?" you ask, and you're surprised you manage to get the words out because there is a hard lump in your throat that makes it hurt to even swallow.

"Judging from the trajectory and escalation of events, you have about three months give or take."

The two of you sit in heavy silence, for the moment you're not sure what else to ask him. Because it feels like you are trapped in a building looking for an exit sign, but all that’s tacked onto the brick wall is your death certificate, waiting to be signed and formalized.

There’s no way out. Nowhere to go.

"Give me your hand," he says, breaking the silence. 

You give it to him without hesitation, watching, puzzled, as he takes off his watch and secures it around your wrists.

"Why are you giving me your watch?"

"It's not a watch," he says, then he presses something on the face of it, and an image of a young woman flickers into existence in the space above your wrist, vaguely see-through. A hologram!

"This is Lyla," he introduces.

Wait, wait? Lyla? As in your mom Lyla? You watch the tiny woman floating above your wrist. Short bob-cut, and flashy heart-shaped sunglasses, with a twinkle in her eye. 

The hologram looks nothing like your mom. You part your mouth, about to ask about the name but you're interrupted by the energetic buzz of a female voice greeting you.

"Boss-girl! Long time no see. Want me to catch you up on the latest multiversal gossip? I compiled an edit of highlights set to Despacito."

"Lyla," Miguel warns, tersely. "Not now."

"Ruuuuude! You're the one who woke me up you know."

"Lyla, go back to sleep."

The female avatar grumbles, but then her image flickers away and the watch turns back into, as far as you can tell, just an ordinary watch.

"Why did you name the watch Lyla?"

"It's not a– " He cuts himself off, sighing with exasperation. "Lyla is an advanced A.I. she's going to be with you at all times. She's an added layer of security, built to protect you."

He didn't answer your question. Completely sidestepped it as if the two of you are having two different conversations.

Built to protect you, he'd said. Does that mean he still intends to do that?

"So you're not going to leave?" you ask him.

He leans back in his seat, eyes drifting towards the table. "No."

You look up at him, stumped. Not sure you're understanding what he's saying. Because not even a few hours ago, when the two of you were in your apartment, this man was adamant there was nothing to be done to save you. That he was going to leave and you were never going to see him again.

Right now though, his actions seem to be contradictory to that. You can't make heads or tails of him. Hot and cold doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

"Why not?" you ask, "I mean, not that I’m not grateful, but you seemed pretty set on the whole ‘I can’t save you’ thing. What changed your mind?"

“You did.” His eyes narrow as he looks down at you, crossing his arms ever his chest, "You told me you wanted to live. Have you changed your mind already?"

“Wha– NO! I just want to know why you changed yours.”

“I–” He hesitates, another wave of sadness passing over his face. “I’m a superhero. I save people… or try to. It’s what I do. I’m not gonna just leave you to die after you tell me you want to live.”

It’s a good answer, even if you don’t buy that it’s the whole truth. 

You look down at your wrist, and the shiny chrome of the not-watch he's just gifted you winks back up at you. "Do you think I have a chance of surviving all this?"

"It's pretty hopeless," he says, and there’s no break in his expression as he continues. "Your chances of making it out alive are pretty much mathematically impossible."

It's odd though. Even though he's outlining the futility of your situation, basically telling you to raise the white flag and surrender, there's something contradictory in the tone of his voice. 

"What do you want to do?" he asks you.

It’s a challenge, you realize. An encouragement. He has faith in you. It's all of these things rolled into one. As if he's telling you to prove the universe wrong.

"I want to live," you answer. "If the universe collapses in three months, then please stay with me. Give me time to solve this and find a way to stay alive."

His mouth curls into a hint of a smile. The very first you've seen from him since you've met. It's bright and boyish, erasing the harsh lines of his stern expression until it gives way for something much softer underneath that makes your heart leap in your chest with triumph.

You grin, a strange elation of happiness buzzing in you as you stretch out your hand to him, in an invitation for a handshake to seal the deal.

"Deal?"

Miguel leans over the table, clasping your hand in his much larger one as he squeezes it back gently.

"Deal." That small smile from before is still there. "So what's next?" he asks.

The thing you never realized, being an ordinary person bereft of super genes or other superhuman powers is just how convenient commuting can be if you have them. 

No longer do you have to brave the Lynchian nightmare that is the NYC subway system. Half-naked manic street preachers giving sermons as you’re held hostage, with nowhere else to go in the carriage. Being chased down by a drunk trumpeting Mariachi band. Instead, all you need to do to get from point A to point B (A: being the Chrysler building and B: the building formerly known as your home) is to hold on tight to Miguel as he swings you both above the city gridlock.

You imagine that this is what paragliding must feel like, except it's so much better because here you don't have to do the safety training beforehand or pay $3,000 for the privilege.

The city skyline is a dark evening blue, dotted with the sparkling lights of office buildings, cab roof lights and street lamps, as the wind ruffles through the fabric of your clothes.

It's such a different sight when you're flying above instead of walking on the streets below, that you don't even clock that you're in your neighborhood, until you see a building with a collapsed wall that's been blocked off, looking like a crash site. Only then do you realize... you're home.

Miguel carefully sets you down on your feet on a small patch of concrete that is clear of the rubble and destruction.

"Why did you want to come back here again?" he asks. 

It’s a good question. Now that you're here, standing in the middle of charred debris and cracked bricks, you're not sure either. You had some vague plans of seeing what you could salvage, hoping for some clothes, maybe your electric toothbrush, or really just any of your stuff. Something that’s yours, no matter how small, to hold on to after the events of today have ripped away life as you know it.

But there’s nothing left. The furniture, all your books and knick knacks, and even your dirty laundry piles have been demolished. Your home as you know it is gone. There's only piles and piles of rubble and traces of white fire extinguisher foam on the ground. The fire has been out for hours, but the pungent smell of smoke and sulfur still pervades the air. 

"You okay?" Miguel asks.

He's still standing at the outer edges of the apartment, close to where your window would have been if a helicopter hadn't crashed through it.

"Yeah... I guess the silver lining is that I didn't have anything expensive. Though it'd been nice if I could've saved my mom's Le Creuset set or at least the nanny-cam so I could return it and get a refund," you joke glibly. 

You nudge aside some concrete rubble with the cap of your shoes. There's nothing under there, no treasured memorabilia that's still miraculously intact. Just more burnt concrete and rubble.

"Why did you have a nanny cam?"

You turn around at his question, to see him hovering close to you, one eyebrow raised with an unhappy set to his jaw. 

From the displeased expression on his face, he's probably misunderstanding something here. Probably thinks you're operating a very unlucrative Onlyfans business, when what you've really been doing is spy on him and his nightly visits. You don't know which is worse to confess to, so you don't confess to anything.

"No reason," you say, ignoring the way his already raised eyebrow twitches with irritation at your lack of an answer.

"Come on, let's go," he says, and he waves towards you in a come hither motion like he's commanding a dog.

"Go?" you ask him. "It's past midnight. My place, as you can see, is wrecked. Go where exactly?"

Miguel shoots you a strange look. "A hotel," he says, like it's the most obvious thing, and– okay, he's not completely wrong in that assumption.

Problem is, you didn't have time to pick up your wallet or phone before your impromptu interdimensional visit. They’ve been incinerated along with all the rest of your worldly possessions, which means you don't have any way to pay for a hotel.

Plus Manhattan hotel prices average $400 a night. Even if you still had access to your debit cards, your budget’s pretty tight right now after all the capital you invested in your unhinged quest to trap the superhero before you. 

"In the city? I don't have that kind of money and it will take months for any insurance payouts to come in."

You should know. As an insurance claims adjuster, you know you’ll be lucky if your claim is processed before the end of the year. And, ugh, just the thought of the paperwork you’ll have to fill out is enough to give you an anxiety migraine.

"I’ll cover the room," Miguel says casually before holding out a hand to you, "Come on, let’s go."

When Miguel said he’d cover it, you expected a reasonably-priced room at one of the Days Inn across the river or the like. Hopefully a place with no rats or bed bugs, and maybe clean bedding over a somewhat comfortable mattress for you to pass out on if you were lucky.

You didn't expect this.

Standing in front of the Midtown Four Seasons, you find yourself on sleek marble so polished you can see your own reflection. You haven't even stepped a foot inside yet and there are two old fashioned doormen, wearing immaculately fitted suits, with an even more impressive posture opening the majestic double-set doors for you as you approach.

It's swanky as hell, and you can’t help gawking like a tourist, eyes glued to the decadent carved ceilings that must be at least 30 feet tall, soaring above you. Honey-colored limestone that looks like it’s been looted from Ancient Rome.

You feel more than a little bit out of place. This is way outside of your budget. You could probably work your job for a lifetime, and not have enough disposable income to stay the night at a place like this.

"Uhm, Miguel... this place is way too–" you start, turning towards him.

But as you were busy lamenting the state of the housing market, he's already walked away from you (for such a bulky guy, he moves swiftly and silently) and as you whip your head around to find him, he's already standing in front of the receptionist.

Damned antelope legged man, would it kill him to wait up for you once in a while? You run up after him and have to tip-toe in order to see over his shoulder because the giant mammoth is blocking the check-in counter.

And wow, even the receptionist here is of a different caliber than the ones you'd find at Holiday Inn. A fashionable bob-cut with razor sharp edges, looking like a model cut out from a Vogue cover.

"Do you have a reservation, Sir?"

You half-expect him to say no, and that the two of you would have to tuck your tail between your legs and walk out of here to the backdrop of a sad trombone playing.

To your astonishment he says your name. The receptionist tip-taps away at her keyboard and then she nods and smiles gracefully at you both. 

"Yes of course. After reviewing your reservation details, I am pleased to inform you that all necessary arrangements have already been made, including advance payment and verification of your identification. Your room is ready for you, we trust you will enjoy your stay."

She flashes you a pearly white smile so shiny it's almost blinding and hands you a hotel key card. 

When you turn around, to your confusion Miguel is no longer next to you. How does he keep disappearing like this? 

"Cielito," Miguel’s voice calls. The nickname doesn’t register at first. It doesn't even occur to you that he’s referring to you, until he barks it out a second time. 

Your head darts up to see him standing by the elevator, tapping his feet impatiently as he waits for you to make it over to him.

"How did you do that?" you whisper loudly to him as you step into the elevator. "Where did you get my ID? How did you make a reservation? How did you--"

He takes your hand, mid-sentence, turning your wrist upwards and taps the watch.

"The computer systems in this universe are child's play for Lyla to manipulate. Reservations, money, ID, she can take care of all of that easily," he explains.

"She can do that?" you ask, and Miguel merely nods at you as the elevator closes behind the two of you.

You tip your head down to inspect your gifted watch. In awe of this technical marvel that would make Siri look like it’s from the stone-ages. You wonder if she can boost your credit scores. She could probably hack any wi-fi password so you'd never have to worry about data throttling again. She could get you table reservations for Libertine! The possibilities are endless!

You turn to Miguel. "Can Lyla get me Beyoncé tickets?" you ask. 

He just shakes his head at you with what almost qualifies as an amused smile.

The room upstairs is massive. 

It’s easily three times the size of your little studio apartment, and the ceilings are twice as tall, with a hanging glass chandelier that’s sparkling bright enough to blind you. It looks like one of those places featured in Architectural Digest. 

Everything is in an art deco style, with expensive looking furniture and even more expensive art hanging on the one spare wall that isn’t covered in floor to ceiling windows. There are large shelves and a sleek looking kitchen, complete with an opulent looking velvet lounge chair of emerald green that looks like something a Roman emperor would be fed grapes on. 

In this colossal space of a room, there is only one bed. One colossal, plush-mattress-topped, goose down duvet and probably 1,000,000,000 thread count sheet covered bed.

You tense up, not sure what the arrangements Miguel had in mind. Did he want the two of you to sleep in the same bed?

Miguel did pay for the room, so you’re not going to start voicing objections. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time in the short time span that you two have known each other to do that. This bed is also a lot wider than your tiny double bed, so it wouldn’t be the cramped disaster it was last night. You’d just have to make sure to use the bathroom before bed this time so he doesn’t jab your full bladder in the morning again. 

Without saying anything, Miguel strides across the length of the room with impatient and determined steps. His hand reaches for the balcony doors and slides them open. 

"Wait wait, where are you going?" you ask him as you run up to the middle of the room. 

“I’m sleeping outside,” he says over his shoulder, and your mind boggles with that. 

“Why? Isn’t it better for you to stay here?”

"This is the 62nd floor. That’s about as safe as you’re going to get. I’ll keep a lookout to make sure no more helicopters come crashing in.” 

You’re not sure if he means the last part as a joke or not, but as you watch his broad back retreating as he walks away from you, a sickening sort of the deja vu twists through your chest. 

I can’t save you, he’d said back in your apartment, Nothing can. 

The feeling clawing at your chest feels alarmingly like panic. It screams that he’s leaving you. That he’s never coming back. That you’ll never see him again. 

You’re being irrational, and you know it. You remind yourself that he wouldn’t have done this much for you only to bail in the middle of the night, but that doesn’t stop the fear that’s festering, sharp and urgent, under your skin, or the way your heart races, your whole body flashing hot and cold at the same time. 

You want him to stay. 

“Miguel,” you call out, and he immediately stops and turns to look back at you, one eyebrow raised in a skeptical question. 

Please stay. 

You open your mouth, but the words won’t come out. You can’t ask this man—this big, sarcastic, rude hulk of a man—to have a sleepover with you because you’re scared to be alone in the dark. He would laugh you out of the hotel room.

“Uhm… thank you,” you say instead, but it’s no less sincere, “For everything.”

His eyes soften, the sharp narrowness of them easing up. “It’s fine,” he mumbles, and despite the cold chill of the evening, you think you can see a faint flush blooming in his cheeks, before he quickly ducks his face from you. “I’ll be right outside if something happens.” 

He turns back around and walks out, closing the patio doors with a gentle click behind him, leaving you by yourself. 

It’s quiet. 

You survey the empty room you’re in. Without Miguel’s large frame taking up space, it seems even bigger than it did before. 

It’s a beautiful room. Something that you’re pretty sure you’ve seen in a movie set. You don’t know why you’re not as excited as you were before. This is you living your Pretty Woman moment. You should be filling up the big jacuzzi tub you saw with bubbles. Heck, maybe ask Lyla to order you a bottle of champagne from room service. 

Instead, your eyes linger on the glass patio doors leading to the balcony terrace. You walk over to the bed, perching yourself down on the edge of the mattress, then flop down. 

Might as well try to sleep, you think to yourself as you climb under the covers and switch off the light. The best thing you can do right now is catch yourself some rest so you’ll be alert while trying to figure out your next steps tomorrow.

3 months… That’s what Miguel told you.

That’s all the time you have left. 

That means you don’t have time to waste, but you also have no idea where to start. The local library doesn’t exactly carry any resources on how to stop the universe from trying to kill you. 

The Universe. 

An infinite cosmos, grander than any human being can possibly comprehend. This vast space containing all the galaxies with its billions of stars and planets, where an individual being does not even register as a speck, and it wants you dead. How can you possibly fight against those odds? 

You lie wide-eyed and awake staring into the dark of the room, and the feeling of dread gnaws into you. 

You don’t want to be alone right now. Turning in the bed, your eyes find their way back to the blank slate of the pitched night outside the balcony doors. 

You really wished he had stayed with you. 

Sitting upright in the bed, you consider your options. You can lie back down. Suffer insomnia and the existential horror of knowing the universe is trying to murder you. Or you can man up, swallow down whatever tiny morsel of your pride you have left and ask Miguel to come back inside and stay with you. 

Flinging the duvet from your body, you get up to walk over to the balcony. You hesitate for a moment before tapping the window pane the way you might knock on a door, giving a polite head's up before you slide the balcony patio open. But when you poke your head out, turning your head left and right, Miguel's nowhere to be found. 

Okay, that’s weird. He said he’d be right outside if you needed him. You walk up to the ledge of the balcony terrace, leaning over the rail and peer down to see him dangling upside down, from the ledge of your balcony. The sight nearly makes you scream. 

"Miguel!” 

At you calling his name, he pulls himself up, one clawed hand gripping at the concrete wall as he climbs his way up and over to you. He makes it look easy, as if gravity does not exist for him, and it’s only a moment until he’s perched on the ledge of the balcony, facing you. 

“What’s wrong?” he demands, eyes concerned, and you’re suddenly aware of how very close he is. His face mere inches from yours, your noses nearly touching.

“What’s wrong? You’re hanging upside down from the 62nd floor! What are you, a bat?!"

“Why did you come out here?” he clarifies, and his words give you pause. You try to gather your thoughts after the bizarre sight you just walked into and remember what you came out here for. 

He’s still looking at you with his full and intense concentration that makes your skin prickle with warmth.

God, it’s embarrassing to ask. You feel like you’re five years old, asking your parents to turn the nightlight on, even though you know you’re a big girl now and aren’t supposed to be afraid of monsters hiding under your bed any more. 

You look down on your hands, where you’re wringing them together, then back up at him, and make yourself spit it out, "Could you… maybe… stay with me tonight?" 

His eyes widen at your question, but he doesn’t actually answer you and gives you no physical indication one way or the other. 

"I feel safer when you're with me,” you admit. 

“I am with you out here,” he counters, because of course he can’t make this easy for you.  

“I can’t see you out here.”

The line of his shoulder eases, and he ducks his head down with a resigned sigh. "Fine. Get back inside, Cielito. You're going to catch a cold like this."

You shuffle back inside to your bed, watching out of the corner of your eye as  he follows you inside and settles himself on the lounge sofa. He’s so tall that his feet are sticking out over the armrests, like a long-legged stork. 

Hiding a smile, you climb back into bed, wrapping the bedding all around yourself.

“Good night,” you call out, and he makes a grumpy noise of acknowledgment. 

Your head drops back onto the soft pillow, and you close your eyes, ready to sleep. It’s such a nice bed. The sheets are cool and soft against your skin and smell of fresh eucalyptus. The mattress is the most comfortable you ever remember resting on, firm but somehow soft at the same time. You feel like you’re sleeping on a cloud. 

Moments go by, and you revel in the sumptuous bed, waiting for the best sleep of your life to claim you. 

Except it doesn’t. 

Somehow… you still can’t fall asleep. Is it… too soft maybe? You turn in the bed, twisting your torso to get into a position you can comfortably sink into, but something doesn’t feel right. There’s no lumpiness like at home, but that should be a good thing. 

Except… despite the decadent softness of the bed. Despite the fact that the sheets probably have a thread count with more zeros than your checking and savings accounts combined. Despite all of the luxury that surrounds you, you still find yourself tossing and turning and wide fucking awake.

The bed is too big. You don’t know what to do with all this space. Your body is not accustomed to this sort of decadence. What if you suffocate sinking into this soft fluffy pillow in your sleep? What if you toss and turn until you fall off this massive bed and break your neck? Maybe that’s how out of all of the universe’s attempts to kill you, you end up dying? 

Fuck! 

You can’t sleep. 

You turn to your side and stare into the velvet lounge chaise on the opposite side of your room, where Miguel is. 

Quietly, you pad up to his still form until you’re standing in front of him and hunch over, trying to decide how rude it would be to wake him up again when there's nothing he can do about your stupid insomnia anyway.

In the dim light, you spot something glinting at you. Looking closer, you notice that the thin chain looped around his neck has escaped his shirt to pool on the fabric of the sofa cushion under him. You gently drag the loose end of the necklace toward you, and find a smooth golden band threaded onto it.

Picking it up cautiously, you flip it in your hand and find that there's something engraved on the inside.  It's hard to see in the darkness, but when you lean closer and squint your eyes, you can just make out what it says.

'MO'—undeniably the initials of one Miguel O'Hara.

Twisting the ring slightly, you find a tiny plus sign followed by your own initials, and your heart drops into the pit of your stomach.

Oh.

The memory of sitting across Miguel at Starbucks returns to you, when you had asked him who you were to him. You think of the avoidant gaze and how he couldn't look you in the eye.

‘Something like that,’ huh?

Guess the other you wasn't just his girlfriend after all, you think, chest drawn so tight it’s painful.

Holding the wedding band in the palm of your hand, you slide down to sit down on the floor with your back pressed against the chaise lounge.

Your heart aches for the man in front of you and everything he's lost.  You really, really hope you're not going to end up as just another regret on his list.

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: As always to my best friend @thirstworldproblemss I am half asleep and running on fumes. I'm wording things poorly but I just want you to know that I am very happy I have you. Thank you for being my friend and for the time we get to spend together. I have the most fun when I'm with you.

Also to @guruan who is my muse, my source of inspiration. This chapter is dedicated to her because have you seen this beautiful piece of artwork she did for EYEM?!

[alternate-real-ities]

Would love to see what other versions of myself are out there!

Hey there, cutie. I've been carefully observing the timelines across the multiverse and I think I've found some interesting ones I would say. Let me first start with one not far from ours. 😉

Meet your brazilian self.

In this sun-kissed universe, your parents were Brazilian, and it shows in every sultry curve of your body. You're a free spirit, always chasing the next wave or beach party under the tropical sun, where the only thing hotter than the sand is the lustful gaze of the locals.

Your olive skin glistens with a sheen of coconut oil as you soak up the rays, and your dark hair flows in the ocean breeze like silk threads begging to be tangled in a passionate embrace. When night falls, you trade in your caipirinha and board shorts for a tight pair of jeans that hug every inch of your physique, ready to heat things up on the dance floor or in a private cabana.

Now, I want you to imagine a reality where Arabs dominate the world and shaped every corner of existence, blending all races into their superior form through generations of intermarriage and genetic manipulation, with lesser races either becoming arabized over time or enslaved.

In this universe, you're the epitome of Middle Eastern masculinity - strong, commanding, and unapologetically in control.

You're a wealthy and powerful alpha male at the pinnacle of this genetically superior race. Your dark hair is always perfectly coiffed, framing a face that exudes confidence, power, and an insatiable drive for achievement.

You exude an aura of confidence and dominance, attracting both admiration and desire from all who lay eyes on you. Every inch of your chiseled body is honed to perfection - from the defined ridges of your chest to your powerful bulge straining against your luxurious clothes.

Next, in another parallel universe, your DNA took a different path, resulting in athletic prowess and an unrelenting passion for the game of basketball.

You're an unstoppable force on the basketball court - lean, muscular, and dripping with sweat after a grueling game. Your chiseled muscles were honed from hours at the gym and a work ethic that leaves opponents in the dust.

Your dark skin glistens with sweat as you leap for a dunk, your brawn and agility making you nearly unstoppable. Off the court, you're charming and charismatic, always ready to charm your fans or give back to your community.

Last but certainly not least, meet your latino fuckboy self in a reality where you're part of an irresistible majority. Here, everyone's got that extra je ne sais quoi - those piercing eyes, that chiseled jawline, that uncanny ability to make anyone fall head over heels in love with just a wink and a smile.

In this realm, you're a tatted-up playboy, always high on life and weed as you navigate the vibrant streets of your city. Your inked skin tells stories of your adventures and conquests, while your confident swagger and sly grins leave women and men weak in the knees.

You're the ultimate player, always on the lookout for the next conquest... but deep down, you crave something real, someone who can handle your wild side without getting too clingy.

So there you have it! As we gaze into these alternate realities, we're reminded that our perception of ourselves is fluid and malleable. These versions of you challenge traditional notions of identity, proving that with a shift in perspective, even the most familiar aspects of ourselves can be reimagined in provocative new ways. So the next time you catch your reflection, consider the infinite possibilities lurking just beyond the mirror...

[avaritia-apotheosis]

5 Universes Parallel and 7 Perpendicular

Trouble often found Constantine like maggots to a corpse

A DPxDC Crossover // Read on [AO3] [FF.net] // Fic Masterlist

Trouble often found Constantine like maggots to a corpse. 

This time, Trouble’s name went by Danny Fenton. Some random kid— “hey I’m fourteen!” — with an impossible physiology and a soul that not even the most desperate demon or benevolent angel would take. Not because Danny is in any way particularly good or evil, but because Constantine is 99.998% sure the Lords of Hell and the Heavenly Hosts even knew what Danny’s soul even was in the first place. 

(If you could even…call it a soul, anyway. He isn’t sure how he can explain it, and Danny has zero clue at what Constantine’s asking for anyway. “It’s science,” Danny would say with a shrug. “Weird science, anyway. Something about ectoplasm and imprinted consciences and mutations in the DNA. I’m not sure on the specifics, but my parents can tell you.”)

Of course, being lost in another fucking universe probably didn’t help.

He clips another cigar and lights it. Cuban, full-bodied, good blend; he got it as a bonus from some clients a few weeks back and he’d been slowly making his way through the pack. He lets the smoke settle on his tongue before he puffs it out, slinging his legs up to rest on top of the coffee table with a groan. 

Danny scrunched his nose at him, uncrossing his arms to go over and open a window. 

“What?” Constantine rolled his eyes, gesturing to the boy with a cigar. “You don’t get to complain. You don’t even need to breathe.”

“Yeah and smoking still makes everything smell like crap. It’s a terrible habit, y’know.”

He huffs, smoke billowing out, and makes a note to himself to smoke like he’s a goddamn dragon just to annoy the kid. “Hey, I think putting up with a bit of my bad habit is enough compensation for having to help your penniless ass, brat.”

Danny scoffed. “It’s not like I had any choice in that.”

Which was the crux of the matter, of course. See, Constantine has had his fair share of inter-dimensional or inter-planar travel. But shit like parallel universes …well, that was more the Justice League’s purview anyway. All those alternate universes where everything is a distorted mirror of their own reality—and apparently home to way too many evil Supermen to be comfortable with— not exactly Constantine’s cup of tea. He’s had his fair share of experiences with them, but definitely not enough to actually help someone whose universe is nowhere even remotely similar to his own.

Oh, according to Danny his Earth did have a London and an America and a Korea, etc. The majority of their countries were the same, give or take a few that only seemed to exist in Constantine’s universe. But it was the people where they differed.  Remarkably, there was no Justice League in Danny’s world. Or any kind of superheroes at all. ( Like in comic books? Danny had said when Constantine asked.)

As far as Danny knew, he was the closest thing that came to a superhero in his world and half of the time people just consider him a menace.  Even big shot ‘civilians’ like Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor, or Oliver Queen were non-entities in that parallel world. Instead they got some creepy asshole called Vlad Masters who should probably get another hobby that isn’t ‘terrorizing a fourteen-year-old.’

But where this strange alternate world lacked in martians and cosmic world-ending threats, they made up for with a shit ton of ghosts. Which brought them to their current predicament: through a ridiculous set of circumstances that Danny really didn’t want to explain, the kid managed to tumble through a rift in the Infinite Realms (something that Constantine hasn’t heard of but you’ll be damn sure he’s gonna make it his business to know) and landed probably five parallel universes and seven perpendicular universes away from  his own earth and right in front of Constantine’s doorstep. (No, those were probably not the correct scientific terms but Constantine was a fucking occultist not a physicist so sue him.)

(Actually, don’t. He’d rather not deal with it.)

Constantine did try his best to do right by the kid. He’d taken Danny’s case up to the Justice League to see if they had the tech that could send the kid home. No such luck at the moment. And even if they did, they weren’t sure if they had the capabilities to connect to not only Danny’s specific branch in whatever cosmic tree was keeping everything afloat, but the correct version of Danny’s universe as well. Constantine’s other contacts said much the same thing.

And since Danny Fenton didn’t exist in this universe, he felt bad leaving the kid alone, so he offered him room and board at his place until they could find a way to get Danny home. (Or until the kid got sick and tired of Constantine’s antics and just moved out.)

(Or until Danny died. Constantine had a pretty bad track record of getting his friends killed by association, y’know. Though considering Danny’s half-ghost… could he even die again?)

(Better not push his luck.)

Constantine set his cigar aside. Danny’s still by the window, elbows propped up on the sill, eyes trained a thousand miles away. No— ‘light-years’ is probably the correct measurement here. 

Constantine rests his chin against his knuckles. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Danny shrugged, chin nestled against his open palm, fingers curled near the seam of his mouth. Nervous nail-biter, maybe? “Just…worried.” His voice is level, but you could feel the anxiety nestled deep within from the sharp staccato of his fingers against the windowsill. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. “I’ve never been gone this long from Amity Park before. It tends to…attract a lot of annoying ghosts, and it’s up to me to make sure their trouble doesn’t get too out of hand.”

“Ah. Define trouble.”

Danny laughs. “It depends on which ghost it is, I guess. Some of the regulars honestly just want to annoy me. There’s the Box Ghost—yeah that’s literally what he calls himself, he controls boxes, no I am not making this up—who should really learn to just stay in the Zone already. I think my record for beating him is like 15 minutes, and 10 of those minutes was just trying to find him. Skulker’s a bounty hunter that’s just dead set—pun intended—on skinning me for my pelt. I don’t know what he’s gonna do with that pelt, and at the rate things are going I don’t think I’ll ever find out. I’ve probably destroyed more of his robot suits than anyone else.”

Some of his rogues want to skin him? Huh. Maybe Constantine should be more concerned about how nonchalant Danny is when describing all of this. “If you got regulars, then that means you also got ghosts that only come in sometimes, right?”

“Yeah…” Danny raked a hand through his hair. “It’s part of the reason why I’m so worried. Those kinds of ghosts have been coming up at an alarming rate recently. Like, the last ghost I dealt with was this guy named Undergrowth. He’s big, green, looks like a giant weed, and is pretty much able to control all plant life. He took control of the entire town and essentially enslaved everyone using mind vines. I literally had to develop a new powerset just to fight him.”

“Huh. Must be tough, having to fight all this on your own.” 

“It is, yeah…but I’m not alone. My friends help me.”

Constantine lowers his feet to the floor. He scoots up to the edge of his ratty old sofa and pats down the spot next to him. “Friends? That’s good, at least. Tell me about them.”

“Well…” Danny let out a sharp exhale, eyes wavering between the window and the empty spot on the couch as if deciding where he’d be more comfortable being at. Eventually, he pushes himself away from the window and tentatively sits down on the couch, fingers drumming against the burgundy cushions. “There’s Sam and Tucker. I’ve known Tucker since forever ago, but the two of us became friends with Sam back in middle school. They were there with me when I, well, became this. And ever since then, they’ve been helping me fight all the ghosts that’ve been coming through the portal.”

There’s a smile on Danny’s lips as he talks about them. Soft but bright. A flash of teeth every time he has to hold back a laugh whenever he suddenly remembers a funny story. He talks about Tucker’s genius with technology, Sam’s interest in the occult,  and how the two of them have a running argument regarding their food preferences. He goes into anecdotes about their adventures, and how so many of Danny’s own victories couldn’t have been done without their help.

“Sounds like you trust them,” Constantine said.

“With my life.” There’s an air of gravity in the way Danny said those words. As if they were an unwavering truth of the universe.

He placed a comforting hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Then trust that they’ll be able to hold down the fort until you get back.”

Danny’s eyes widened a fraction, before he hung his head low, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Suddenly finding himself feeling very awkward at this almost-tender moment, Constantine slapped his knees once and pushed himself off the couch. “Well, best stop your worrying for now, kid. Come on, grab your jacket. Let's go get some Nando’s.”

Danny’s brows scrunched up in confusion. “The heck is Nando’s?”

“Oh you poor, poor, American. Come on, let me introduce you to the wonders that is peri peri chicken.”

Trouble often found Constantine like maggots to a corpse. But maybe this time, he didn’t mind Trouble so much. 

[ckret2]

How do you (personally) rank the validity of different canon sources?

Ex. Show, Books, Livestreams, Panels, Deleted Scenes ect.

Disclaimer ahead of time that this is solely for my own personal canon-compliant fic writing purposes and I don't expect anyone else to follow this or even think they're obligated to write canon compliantly

Tier one: the show is more canon than the books, but only 1% more canon. In defiance of Alex's decree, I do treat Little Gift Shop of Horrors as canon.

Tier two: everything in the books (plus the books' tie-in websites, like Shmeb-You-Unlocked or TINAWDC) is canon UNLESS it's contradicted in the show. If there's a contradiction, usually the show wins, but it has to be decided on a case-by-case basis. Sometimes contradicting book info take precedence over show info if the book's info is better. The best outcome is when the info can be smoothly synthesized. (Note that having to weigh a book against the show only applies to CONTRADICTIONS; if the book just ADDS ONTO our knowledge of the show in a way that doesn't actually contradict it, it's automatically canon.)

Also in defiance of Alex, I consider Time Pirates' Treasure wholly canon, with the "official" timeline being one of the ones where they get the treasure and all of the other choose-your-own-adventure branches being things that happened in neighboring parallel timelines.

Out of the books, Journal 3, TBOB (+TINAWDC), and Lost Legends (+Shmeb-You-Unlocked) are the most canon. TBOB takes precedence over Journal 3 on matters where TBOB's lore is clearly intended as an upgrade on prior ideas (ex: the shaman's portal and the pyramids). Dipper & Mabel's Guide, Time Pirates' Treasure (+ the Axolotl page), and Don't Color This Book are secondarily canon. Lazy screenshot-based novelizations of existing episodes are whatever.

I choose to selectively semi-reject some of the skeevier conspiracy theory claims in the books as "Bill's lying about these": outside of those exceptions, going "there's no evidence Bill's lying about this part but I've decided that he is just because I don't like it" is the coward's way and dishonorable.

Info in the Bill Cipher AMA is third tier canon, since it was written in-character and comes directly from Alex. (Some quotes from the AMA were recycled directly into TBOB + TINAWDC.) Gus Burnside's twitter account is also third tier.

For the first three tiers, all info is canon unless something in a higher tier contradicts it.

The Cipher Hunt is 3.5th tier.

All out-of-universe materials—livestreams, panels, interviews, DVD commentary, tweets, doodles & concept art, etc—are fourth tier. If it's contradicted by anything in the higher tiers, they take precedence; but, for lack of a conflict, out-of-universe materials fill in the gaps. But the person involved matters: show writers' statements on the characters are more canon than voice actors' statements. If fourth-tier materials contradict each other, the newer one takes precedence. Fourth-tier materials can be selectively ignored if so desired, but better to find a way to twist them to make them work.

The Gnome Gemulets game is fifth tier; all the lore from it is canon, but the events may or may not have actually happened, or else only loosely happened like that. Gnome Gemulets may occasionally rank higher than the out-of-universe materials.

Disney.com flash games and the like are semi-canon; you CAN take lore and details from them if you want but the events probably didn't literally happen unless you really want to make it work. Okay to imagine that events happened that were loosely inspired by the games.

Deleted scenes and cameos (ex: Bill in the Simpsons) are semi-semi canon. They probably didn't happen, especially if it contradicts canon; but you can freely take ideas and vibes from them and use them as examples of the kinds of things that could happen (ex: Bill would try to con people into buying crypto just for the heck of it).

Unwritten episodes are semi-semi-semi canon: they definitely didn't happen, but by god, you could MAKE them happen.

The How Not To Draw Grunkle Stan short is as yet unknown. Under normal conditions it ought to be semi-semi canon, but since TINAWDC did some stuff with the Henchmaniacs escaping to reality shortly before this clip came out about Bill escaping to reality, there's a slim possibility this is part of a budding storyline about Bill & the gang in the real world, so I'm reserving judgment for now.

[talon-dragonbeast]

do you ever think about theories of origin? i do. sometimes i like to look into all the different explanations for alterhumanity that ive seen in the past, just for fun. of course, all my identities are still psychological, so i dont even need to think about this on the first place... but shower thoughts are shower thoughts, and pondering things for fun is a hobby of mine.

my favourite theory of origin is, undoubtedly, the soul misplacement theory. the notion that, before you were born, a soul was placed inside your body, one that didnt match the one that was "supposed" to inhabit the body... so, for example, if im a dragon, the theory says that the soul of a dragon was mistakenly put in this human body, and that this soul was supposed to go somewhere else (maybe a parallel world, a different dimension/plane of existence, or just a different planet very far away from here) but is now trapped here.

i dont know, i just find it very sweet. if you think about it, this theory requires the belief that somehow, somewhere, there is a world where dragons exist (and also, it requires you to assume that your human soul, the displaced one, is now in a dragons body in this other world, which i find hilarious). this theory is in itself very comforting to those who uphold it, because it makes you able to believe that, no matter how bad this life is, theres a world out there where you could live or have lived the life of your dreams. maybe you are able to remember what this life is or was like (through noemata or past life regression), maybe not; but you know that it could be out there, and that is enough.

it also lays out some very interesting questions: if this was a mistake, how is that possible? who puts souls inside bodies in the first place? is it a god? some other higher being? if it is a god or something similar, does this mean that gods are capable of making mistakes? is this theory compatible with other religious beliefs, or is it a religious belief on its own? what even is a soul? what will happen to my dragon soul when i die; will it go to a dragon body like how it was supposed to in the first place, or will it remain trapped in this plane of existence forever? do all dragonkin come from the same "dragon world", or are they different ones? and if they indeed are different ones, does that mean that dragons are common enough in the universe that there are not one, but multiple worlds with dragons out there? are dragons the crabs of the universe? this and other questions i yell into the void, because i know that by their very nature they wont have one single answer, and because everyone is different every being will have different theories for their own existence.

other theory which i find fascinating is the parallel life theory. not because of the theory itself, but because of the implications of it. if your soul, your mind, your counciousness or whatever, was really able to exist in two different realities at once, what would this mean for psychology, for science? are only some brains especially wired to jump from one world to another, or is everyone capable of doing so with the right training? in these other lifes, would you retain the knowledge from this one, or would you lose it every time you switch between worlds? and also (and forgive me if this may sound insensitive, this is a rhetorical question and not meant to have an answer), which one of these worlds would be considered "the most important one", or even "the real one"? is it the first? is it the one you discover later in life? is it the most "mundane" one? the one you like the most? i think this theory leaves more questions than it answers, and while that may work for some people it does make me somewhat uneasy, as if there is more to learn about it. but thats just my personal opinion.

and finally, the Everyones Otherkin theory. this is of course the funniest one and the one i would most wish to be true, mainly because i wholeheartedly believe that it would make a better world this way. it would also explain some things like the "spirit animal" phenomenon from a decade or so ago, or the fact that almost all humans unconsciously align themselves with animals/mythical creatures/objects/colors, in some way (via archetypes or symbolism) throughout their lives. its true that sometimes i like to assign kintypes to the people i know, but i only do it for my own strange amusement and would never take it more seriously than i should.

so yeah, while none of these theories apply to me, i still like to think about them from time to time because i believe theyre interesting. so, just out of curiosity: whats your theory of origin? whats your favorite one (regardless of if you believe in it or not)? and finally, whats the weirdest theory that youve come across over your time in the community?

[m-s-justice]

once again posting meta. I wanna munch on the cycle. have lunch with me. TL;DR I think the Cycle is fundamentally flawed and fails as a narrative tool.

so like. is it necessary? I know that sounds stupid but let me yap. So, to rephrase "is it necessary?" to a more specific "what does it do for the narrative?" it pays off origins (and DE, to some extent) like obviously it's a loop we saw their statues. and we have hindsight. but what does it actually do?

Read More because this is LOOOOOOOONG I'm not exaggerating ↓

Time loops are stagnancy. Cycles usually entail a sort of inevitability that's born out of either immutable fate or one's own actions. In very interesting stories, it's usually both. It's usually a device that forcefully makes the character that's looping Go Through Stuff. Sometimes it's recognizing the fault in your actions, giving the character a new zest for life, sometimes it's a "man wouldn't it be fucked up if you were in a loop" but most of the time it's metaphorical for something!

what purpose does the Cycle serve? what is the Cycle saying or doing or representing?

fuuuuck if I know!

Let's see what actions put the bo3 cast into the loop!

They drink the blood of the mobsters to avoid getting wiped from existence by Monty. Richtofen planned this specifically, so to some extent the loop is intentional.

but like. why is that necessary? why is that the mechanism by which they preserve themselves? why would Monty ever consider wiping them if he's omniscient (to a degree) and knows it's a time loop because by definition them being in the past has Already Happened. But let's go a step further. Why Loop At All?

it complicates more than it preserves because the circumstances of the loop are not perfect. They Change things that cannot be undone by Monty simply moving them back through time and space to set up their future - past journey.

Do the kids in the house cease to exist once revelations is over? And "dimensional fracture" can only really be done once since they are entire universes with histories even if they diverge, they retroactively have always existed. The "shattering" cannot be a sort of "shatter-verse" where the off shoot parallel dimensions exist only as shards and reflections of the Original Timeline, because the universes existed before that as infinite worlds seeded with different potential via the Summoning Key by the uh I forgot it's name so I'll Elden Ring it up and call it the One Great from which all things originate. So the dimensional fractures were created the very first time Ultimis Richtofen was killed and then retroactively Always Existed and will thus continue to until... Nikolai Agarthans on his Device until he Elaborate Murder-Suicide

So like ok tangent over about that but what I'm getting at here is that the sequence of events that happen are Continuous and Circuitous. They have Already Happened, are currently Happening, and will Happen in the Future. Sofia getting sent to Revelations and dying with Maxis happens. But why would she reappear again if in the past, she's already been sent away by your past selves? Is she part of the loop? I wouldn't think so because she's not Primis. Why does Samantha cry out for help if she already knows she's never leaving the House because Revelations has happened billions of times and will happen billions more? and if Samantha is "reset" so to speak, that makes no fucking sense. Her Entry into the House is entirely unrelated to the Loop. She's put there by Ultimis Maxis and stays there until Revelations//AO. Her time there is strictly linear from her perspective. but if that's the case, why does everything get reset? I doubt it's Monty doing that because... that's not really what he does?

Monty is an interesting critter. He is essentially God, particularly the Christian one as the text itself alludes to. All powerful, omniscient, yet abides by the concept of "free will" and so he's marked by passive action. Nudges, influences, little hidden messages sneaked in to give you a clue, his presence implied on maps by a red scarf as opposed to the Shadow Man who boldly and bodily appears whenever he's able to. As seen with Primis, any direct action he takes must be subtle. unnoticeable. Hence why he loops them, so that it "works out perfectly". He wouldn't just upturn all of the fractures because wouldn't that impede on the people's inside of them? their "free will"? their existences are just as real as their originators. Monty wouldn't interfere with it by virtue of his own self imposed limitations.

but like ok whatever shut up justice and get to the point. Is the loop necessary?

I don't think so. It muddies the plot. And I'm fine with time loops as a concept, I am a Homestuck fan, but this one feels... sloppy. The small ones that happen, like Richtofen giving blood to his past self, that feels fine because it's a perfect loop. His own future seeds his past and vice versa. Nothing else is affected, other than the consequences of the loop that are his friends now knowing looping is possible and that he's now in possession of the blood.

But ok ok so what? it's a bit of a sloppy narrative but that's the point. the Loop sucks. that's why bo4 is about breaking it. because ending the loop is the other half of the narrative. Looping is a set piece, a set up, an instrument meant to push the narrative, breaking it, or just escaping it, is the narrative payoff, the completion of the arc.

so how does the loop break? A random guy that our crew has never once talked to nor even know exists manages to break his own, very literally rewriting fate.

Wow that is fucking ass. And not just because of the retcon of MotD, which I am very depressed about, but narratively speaking? for our protagonists? it sucks. they didn't do it, the breaking of the loop just happens to them. Richtofen doesn't sacrifice himself and cements, at least this version of himself, as the selfless, "nicest one", but because he's forced to do it by fate. It's not his choice, he was backed into a corner. it's either die one time and everyone else escapes or everyone dies infinitely. easy option.

but even from a Watsonian perspective, it fails. BotD is a "trap" to kill Richtofen? Well, in the LITERAL SAME MAP another Richtofen shows up and replaces him. Like... why is that even allowed? Why would the Warden or the Shadow Man just allow popsicle Richtofen to stay there? if you wanted to kill him, then just turn off the pod. that makes it so he, inevitably, dies there since all past Richtofens will eventually become that Future Richtofen via Revelations which is now no longer a viable path, then you kill the sole current one via the dark mechanism. boom. Edward dead, just like you wanted.

it's just so shit. It doesn't push the themes, it doesn't make any sense for people who interact with the loop, and breaking it was via the most contrived asspull imaginable that doesn't even have the guts to give the consequences of the map any weight.

I love this story and it's characters but I will never pretend that it's a masterpiece, or even well written. Does anyone want to share what Primis was doing while Richtofen was looping for years? Does anyone want to talk about why Monty is evil and somehow corrupted by the Dark Aether despite never interacting with it? Or how Samantha's Aether powers persisted in BO4 despite being "purified" by Monty and being allowed into the New Universe because of said purity? or why Richtofen had to collect his child self's soul, but it was apparently okay to collect the adult versions of Ultimis even though we know both Dempsey and that version of Takeo were experimented on by 115 and were thereby equally "tainted"? Why was Victis looping in Die Rise?

yet again I stand alone, gazing through my bleak window, painted in drops of falling rain. "No one understands", I murmur. I am left with the silence with my musings with the only response being that of the singing water playing a melody on the glass.